


fickle world, stubborn love

by pomme (manta)



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Future Fic, M/M, Magical Realism, Travel, but akaken are the main ones, other minor canon and original characters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-31
Updated: 2016-07-31
Packaged: 2018-07-25 16:17:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 23,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7539430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/manta/pseuds/pomme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Akaashi sees the world; meanwhile, Kenma makes sense of his own. Despite the distance, they find similarities in different situations, common ground through intangible connections, and what they mean to each other after years of friendship.</p>
            </blockquote>





	fickle world, stubborn love

**Author's Note:**

  * For [themorninglark](https://archiveofourown.org/users/themorninglark/gifts).



> Hi themorninglark, your gifter here! 
> 
> So. I’m nervous as heck. Your writing is AMAZING, and I am but a small fry. Some things came up during the creating period and I wish I had more time to edit and think, but things are what they are and I digress.
> 
> Sorry for the relatively large word count. This fic was like a child, or a potato wedge fresh out of the oven. It seems manageable (and delicious, in the wedge’s case) when you lay eyes on it, but you blink. And in the moment your eyes are closed, something happens: the child wanders off, or someone steals the wedge. In a similar vein, this fic slowly grew until it ballooned to what it is now. 
> 
> Anyway! Your “Dear Creator” letter mentioned your fondness for Akaken, travel fic, future fic, and magical realism. My brain decided to combine them, and this is the result of that attempt. I hope you like it.
> 
> Big shout outs to:
> 
> 1) Justine, for the initial advice and making me feel more comfortable about trying something out of my comfort zone,  
> 2) Jun, for being my ever dependable friend and beta and who continues to urge me on when I want to quit,  
> 3) Mandy, for being a lovely and supportive writing buddy whose upbeat attitude kept me going.

Seven o’clock on the nose is the spring in a jack-in-a-box that propels Kenma from his seat.

Backpack on (he was already wearing it at his desk; never mind looking too eager, he’s efficient enough his boss doesn’t mind, and the dress code isn’t strict), he’s the first to the door. Fortuitous that his work station is closest to it, and he can pull off not looking all that excited anyway.

He appears too young, too small, too unassuming to work at a building that requires its employees swipe in and out. But that’s the nature of this place, really: a variety of types, mostly male, some in the traditional office wear of dress shirts, some donning impeccably pressed suits and skirts, some attired in scuffed sneakers and frayed jeans and hoodies like Kenma himself. Regardless of where they work, though, they all must fit through this metallic choke point, the turnstiles that unload them onto a waiting world.

So Kenma allows himself to be swept along. He doesn’t enjoy it, but he allows it, because it’s easier than fighting the tide. He and his colleagues mingle like rivulets returning to their water source, as they meld with others working on the same street and who were released in a similar fashion. It becomes easier to see collectives, entities, when faces bleed together in the trees’ smeared haze and dying warmth of the sunset.

Professional workers though most of them are, some cry out akin to children, fingers pointed at the sky with no presence of mind for proprieties. These are the ones who see something strange enough to exclaim about; the rest stare unblinkingly upward, blank faced. Some, like Kenma, watch only with mild interest as they keep moving.

The subways rumble with life beneath pairs of feet: a mute reminder of their second commute to come.

“Look, look, a goose heading south! Think it’s real?”

“A cupcake, like the ones Mother used to make. She’s telling me it’s time I visit her grave.”

“I think… I think that’s an alligator wearing a tea cozy? A lumpy island with a massive snowglobe? No…”

“Oh, disgusting! Why a _durian_ , of all things?”

“An umbrella that rains from the joints and plays polka music? Well, it made sense in my dream...”

Today, Kenma inhales the sharp scent of laundry detergent, almost acrid in its crispness. _Mountain Fresh_ , the label declared; he recalls wrinkling his nose and contesting the merits of such a claim when the liquid smelled more like a concentrated poison.

“Well, it was 50% off. It’s this, or clothes that smell like volleyball practice,” was the answer, paired with an amused smile.

“But-”

Nimble hands firmly pried the bottle from his fingers. “I’ll be careful,” Akaashi had promised, still smiling. ”I’ll pour in just enough.”

And Kenma couldn’t argue with a response like that.

 

* * *

 

_Pulses run high, both outside in the scorch of the day and within heaving chests._

_This year, the summer camp is held at Nekoma High School. At other schools, the matches and the punishments and extra practices are a pain. But because Nekoma are the hosts,_ everything _is a pain. They must figure out accommodations, food, schedules, matches, equipment, permission to do it all, promise they will use the keys responsibly by swearing responsibility and fealty and their future children and whatever else. Kenma admits he wasn't listening very hard when the school principal made them repeat the words after him, but it's not like Nekomata was paying any attention, either._

_Other teams have managers to specially focus on the non-playing aspects. While unintimidated at the prospect of whether Nekoma's capacity as hosts will affect the other teams' perception of them as a team, Kenma wonder if, perhaps, he could have tried a little harder to recruit managers for this year. It's a little late though; Kuro is gone and can't help him recruit, and while Kenma is on good terms with his classmates, they're not exactly on steady speaking terms._

_He needn't have worried, though. They have Naoi, and they have Shibayama, and those two are the most responsible; add the eager group of helpers that encompasses most of the rest of the team (this definitely excludes Kenma, he won't kid himself), and Nekoma has more than enough help._

_Nekoma is also the first team to lose their first match._

_Much to Kenma's displeasure, their punishment is to run around the entire school once. But, he reminds himself, that is better than flying falls or God forbid, a steep hill. (That is, after all, why Kenma chose this punishment. He just doesn't want to be the first to suffer it.)_

_Not a great way to start off._

_"Well, let's go," Kenma says to the others because he must, with less aplomb than Kuro, with_ far _less. No, that's fine, Kenma checks himself. He doesn't have to be Kuro. No one expects him to be._

_"Off I go, Kenma-san!" Lev responds, and overtakes him within three strides. With a "Hey, wait up, Lev!", Inuoka's on his heels in a few more steps."Me too, me too!" calls Suzuki, the 189cm first year, and Kenma watches him go, a little resentfully. Where are all these tall people sprouting from? They're all breathing the same air._

_"Oi, you guys! Pace yourselves!" Tora's voice has gotten even louder over the course of summer with the constant yelling strengthening his vocal cords. The birds in the distant running track take off in alarm. "This isn't a race. If you tire yourselves out, Kenma'll have your head!" He, Fukunaga, and Shibayama catch up with Kenma then, and match his pace._

_Kenma can practically see the sweat that pours off of them steaming into the musty air. But Shibayama's breathing isn't laboured the way it was last year; he's worked on his endurance, then. Tora can outrun them all - and has, in spirited races with Lev with bets like "Winner gets to declare himself the ace of this race” and “Winner gets treated to a snack of his choice”, and they’ve fostered a relationship that’s not quite mentor-mentee or rivals vying for the same title. Tora pulls back his pace; he wafts his jersey back and forth in a vain attempt to keep himself cool, all too aware of the "2" emblazoned on it. Kenma’s caught by a stab of displeasure - he didn't choose this careful, cautious Tora as his vice-captain. But it's only a matter of a time before Tora forgets to think and relaxes into his role. He’s dependable like that, and all Kenma knows he has to do is wait._

_Kenma hates anything that makes him tired, or sweaty, or hot. Volleyball checks off all of these criteria, and he still hates the sticky feeling that makes him want to crawl out of his own skin after practices. He thought it'd be preferable to be those things when he was alone. But, he's found, having company in the same predicament has proved more pleasant than he thought._

_"Kozume," calls the voice, quiet but incisive, cutting through the muggy weather like a sail firmly catching the wind._

_Tora, on the defensive, opens his mouth as if to demand what Fukurodani's captain wants with theirs. Fukunaga, sensing this isn't a conversation meant for them, firmly presses his hands, one each, into Tora's and Shibayama's backs, and prods them forward. “Hey, what are you-?” But Tora cuts himself off, doesn't need much more encouragement than that; Fukurodani's team overtakes them then, and Tora sprints ahead with a "Lev, Inuoka, Suzuki! Forget what I said, RUN YOUR ASSES OFF. WE CAN'T LOSE TO THEM!" Which, of course, ensues in a full out dash._

_Akaashi, however, doesn't match the franticness of his team, and lets them race on. "So you lost," he says, his curly hair already beginning to frizz in the morning heat._

_"So did you, if you hadn't noticed," Kenma pants. Light summer freckles are scattered across Akaashi's cheekbones, his skin tan. And to Kenma's annoyance, he's also visibly grown taller._

_Akaashi just smiles, even as a bead of sweat trickles down his temple. "The first defeats of our careers," he says, with no bitterness. "Bokuto-san_ did _tell me, 'Adjusting to a new team takes time, Akaashi! Prepare to lose_ every single game _this camp, but make them magnificent losses, OK?'"_

 _"Let's not make a habit of losing," Kenma says. "At least_ we _won't, anyway."_

_Akaashi's smile reminds Kenma of a talon flash in the dark. "We're playing each other next."_

" _Then it's fine, isn't it? If you lose all the games."_

 _Now, Akaashi’s smile is a full-velocity plunge towards an unsuspecting mouse. "I was merely advised to_ prepare _to lose_. _Not that I_ planned _to."_

_They're on the last block, the straight shot that leads back to the gym. The zelkova trees shimmer with the echoing haze of distant thoughts. The stitch in Kenma's side aches, but he doesn't speed up. Neither does Akaashi. They run, neck-and-neck, with the competition sizzling in the air between them._

_"I was watching the first game," Akaashi says, his breath laboured. "You're even stiller now, when you toss. Not even a control tower anymore. An electric rod."_

_He watches Kenma now, the curls on his forehead limp, moisture dripping into his dark eyes._

_It's Kenma's turn to smile. "I was watching too. You're faster." Faster as in, he can see the muscles rippling along Akaashi's back and arms as he fires the ball somewhere. It's precise, deadly, and leaves Kenma feeling like he has no room to breathe. "But that won't be enough."_

_"No? I suppose not. We're still fledgelings, after all." Akaashi says. "But we'll give you a run for your money. Prepare to work your ass off, and hate every minute of it."_

_"Then prepare to lose. Twice," Kenma says, smiling as he’s almost drowned out by Lev's victorious yells up ahead._

 

* * *

Kenma turns the key in the door, fiddling it to work the lock.

The first thing he does is toss his backpack onto the couch. Then off comes his hoodie, which he throws haphazardly on the floor. Akaashi would purse his lips and make some offhand comment like, "Someone might slip on that," which Kenma would ignore in his worser moods, or take the hoodie upstairs in his good ones.

Akaashi's not here anymore, and so the hoodie stays. Kenma used to put it away like a good luck charm, like an unconscious habit, that one day he turned privy to. No, this repetitive motion would not pull Akaashi back, a rope in a steady and indefinite tug of war where Kenma doesn't know just how much cord he needs to tow in until he finally can see the other end.

Kenma pops the garlic yakiniku he bought from the nearby Family Mart into the microwave. The microwave is, as he notes when he opens it, full of dirt. It needs cleaning, as does the whole kitchen, frankly, and as does the whole apartment.

Kenma uses the one and a half minutes for the yakiniku to warm up to turn on the TV and pad to his room to retrieve his apple print blanket. He has to pass by the closed door that hides Akaashi's room, and Kenma's first two steps are on tip-toe before he remembers he doesn't need to sneak around like this anymore. He runs, seizes the thin but warm blanket, and cannonballs himself back onto the couch, wrapping himself up securely. The microwave beeps then, and Kenma shuffles to the kitchen and back with his food.

He eats in silence, the TV volume of the game show just loud enough to drown out the footsteps of the upstairs neighbours. Kenma yawns and slides his phone open (ignoring the message from Kuro pointedly asking how deliciously _fresh_ dinner was), settling on one end of the couch to curl into it and to press "call."

Kenma is immediately put on hold, which is a good sign given how busy the webs can be. Today's tune is cicada song in a pristine field, crying at their very loudest along with the dusk as they quiet with the sun. It brings back Nekoma's first and only attempt at camping, where the only real benefit from living with an insect swarm that descended upon them at any given moment was for Kenma to ascertain just who he'd want in the event of a zombie apocalypse. (For future reference: first choice, Fukunaga, who blithely plucked the cicadas off of everyone’s backs to examine them, both impressive and alarming. Second choice: Tora. Quick and deadly when it comes to saving others, most likely honed from his big brother instincts. Dead last: Naoi, who startles at so much as a breeze on his neck.)

The chirping fades out eventually, and his mind enters a state of static and white noise - a nothingness with something prickling at the edges that isn't uncomfortable. Kenma revels in the temporary quiet it grants his ever-moving mind, as he waits for the crackle on the periphery of his thoughts to still.

When it does, he pays the toll by setting a lingering notion free: of stale heat, collecting in the air, and a drop of moisture hitting a red polyurethane running track.

His mind regains its beat, and pulses, waiting and waiting, he leans in. The sharpness of dirt fills his nose, hears the slow scratch of things that move and dig, an urgent rush with a million turns-

"Hello," says Akaashi.

This is the time they've determined, and thus, there are no need for questions. Kenma takes a sharp breath, like he has just found his exit and managed to cling on, while the wind's inertia continues on into the infinite. "I ate garlic yakiniku again," he says.

"Again? The fourth time this week."

"It's good enough for me."

"If only I could say as much about onigiri. This is my eighth day in a row. Getting sick of it."

"Change the filling."

"The filling is always rice, nothing else. Anything stronger, and it'll attract pests."

“Where are you?” Kenma says.

“A cabin in the Siberian mountains. We're trying to get some shots of tigers in their natural habitat." Akaashi chuckles, a rueful noise. "Someone almost got attacked yesterday in the bunker by a mother with her cubs. I expected excitement, but I wasn't prepared for _this_ kind of excitement. I suppose there's nothing but to get used to it."

Kenma's ears pay extra attention to the last sentence. "How much longer will you be there?"

"Not sure," Akaashi says, not even bothering to mask the truth. But that's preferable for the both of them: two seekers of what is, rather than what can be or what will be.

"Oh," he responds, and then finds he has nothing else to say, because there's nothing else to be said. Kenma didn't expect anything else, and yet his chest twinges with something straggling that pulls his emotions into a sinking pulse that culminates in his heart.

They pass a few minutes in crystal clear silence. They do, sometimes, because their communication has always included the spaces in between the words as well: settling near each other while watching their teams wreak havoc, and then actively seeking each other for a semblance of peace, one of them locking their dorm door when the other comes back from classes and preventing outside noise from inviting itself in, sprawled on opposite sides of the couch with Akaashi tuned to the news and Kenma fiddling away on his electronics or curled up with a book.

"Kozume," Akaashi says, and Kenma's ears prick anew at the sharp note in that word, "if this distance is... too considerable, then-"

"Then what?"

"I-" Another chuckle, the sharpness gone, Akaashi’s voice only rueful. "Well, I signed a contract. So, nothing."

"I don't regret it," Kenma says. "And you don't, either." He adds the last sentence, flatly, brutally, as a reminder to them both, "You're not leaving anything behind." And there's another painful truth that exists between them: there are sparks, but no flame.

“You don’t seem too put out today.”

“The programmers finally figured out the cut cene glitch on the fifth level. We can finally skip to the first boss.”

“You’ve been looking forward to that.”

“I have to start at ‘Easy’. Boring, but one day I’ll get to play ‘Master’ level.” Kenma’s hardly adventurous in real life, but he gets his kicks from the virtual world.

As if the channel knows, telltale static begins its slow creep into Kenma's mind.

"Time's up," says Akaashi. "Same time tomorrow?"

"Yeah. I-" Kenma manages, and finds he can't say anything else. He finds the desire at the end of phone calls that are filled with innocuous talks of nothing, to say the amalgamation of everything he meant in those little spaces in a few choice words that are the only option in the time left to them.

Concern tints Akaashi's even voice. "Kozume?"

Kenma swallows. "Take care," he says, right before the connection crashes shut.

It floods in reverse, streaming away from a cabin, plummeting through the scarce fauna that populates a frigid mountainside and then back, back, back, pell mell in a pine forest and then _down,_ hurtling along earthen beds of moss and cooling magma in a great flood that chokes to nothing, racing along a busy main road in Tokyo before culminating in a small apartment in Meguro.

Kenma thinks about ginkgo trees that appear to wave in the blazing heat of what's come before. The memory has not faded in clarity, but appears set, spent, for now.

 

* * *

_When Kenma opens the front door, it's dark. Thinking he's the first home (hardly a rarity), he flicks the switch on and jumps. Akaashi's on the couch, rumpled suit and all, with an arm over his eyes._

_"I'm at the end of my rope," he says, before Kenma can decide if he should approach or tiptoe past like he didn't notice._

_Kenma doesn't particularly want to stick around to find out why exactly Akaashi is at the end of his rope. But seeing as Akaashi's not the complaining type and one half of the reason Kenma's rent is cheaper, he seats himself in the armchair with a barely audible sigh._

_"My boss gave me three more projects tonight, on top of the two I was assigned. It's all spreadsheets and meetings and graphs, all day, every day."_

_"The university exit panel said you had potential for a business manager, give or take a few years."_

_Akaashi manages a bemused huff. "They said the same for you, too. And here you are, with a job in game development."_

_"It made the most sense," Kenma says, shrugging. He takes hard fact seriously, especially in an environment where paying attention to data is the difference between a win and a loss. But there's data and then there's opinion presented as data, and he's learned to tell what's what. And "_ Kozume-san, perhaps an occupation where you can use that analytical head of yours-" _isn't something he needs to hear the end of._

"I _thought going into economics made the most sense," Akaashi says into his arm. "It was a sensible choice at the time. Sense, what even is that?" He stirs and winces. "No, that's too hard a question right now."_

_They both make more money than this place needs. But it’s quiet, and they revel in it. Besides neither of them have ever prioritized change, first and foremost. Kenma’s an alley cat, but prefers to roam his familiar territories._

_Kenma heads for their kitchen and takes out the small, flat box of ibuprofen in the cabinet. He approaches the couch, and sets the pills and a glass of water on the coffee table. That's when he catches the camera perched on the edge, the camera that took an esteemed place on a lofty but seldom-retrieved shelf in Akaashi's room. Gathering nostalgia, gathering dust._

_Now it sits, still in its velvet cloth case, the wear and fade embossed in the fabric._

_"I don't know," Akaashi says; he must have sensed Kenma's questioning look. "I came in, ready to start dinner. My migraine really let me have it then. I only planned to rest for a while, but then it turned into the existential crisis I wasn't expecting. I couldn't think of what else to do, I just thought about how I used to just take a few pictures when I wasn't in the best mood."_

_"A camera won't work without a charged battery."_

_"Turns out even art is cruel even to the impulsive ones that make it."_

_"So you admit you're an artist. Impulsive, following your own whims..."_

" _I can’t deny that." Akaashi doesn't make an attempt to sit up. "Remember when we exchanged words over the net during the Nationals qualifiers in our second year? I called Bokuto-san_ capricious _, but that's me._ I'm _capricious. Right now, Bokuto-san's roaring his head off and hitting his cross spikes and sometimes getting moody at the Olympic Training Centre, doing what he's always been relied on to do. And I’m… here."_

_Kenma prods Akaashi's arm, because it's ibuprofen and Kenma isn't going to waste the extra effort he made to get it. "That's not all," he says, noticing the dull gleam of Akaashi's laptop at the other end of the couch, as if Akaashi had pushed it there in an attempt to move it as far away from himself as possible._

" _I received an email."_

" _I get those every day. From who?" Kenma prods Akaashi again._

_Akaashi slowly pushes himself up, careful to keep his head steady. Dark pools tinge the undersides of his eyes, and he's tense as if preparing himself for a bodily wince. But his gaze is as sharp as ever when he trains it on Kenma. "It's for a photography job," he says._

_"In Tokyo?"_

_"Most likely all over the world. A location team’s scouting places for a movie; I’m just a novice tagging along, but it’s something. Remember Ennoshita Chikara?"_

" _Karasuno’s captain, who up and quit_ his _fancy job to be a film director?"_

_“Yes, that’s the one. Heard he’s handling quite the rambunctious team.”_

" _You've gotten plenty of practice with the rambunctious teams you've led."_

" _Turbulent as those people are, they're no match for the unpredictable experiences I’m sure to meet." And as he downs the pill with a gulp of water, Akaashi shoots Kenma a smile. It's the smile that's brief and refracts through the glass, yet Kenma sees it. His stomach shifts, and it must be his appetite._

_Akaashi's hand lingers over the camera, touch feather light. But he retracts it with a sigh._

_"Anyway, I can't consider it." He shakes his head an infinitesimal fraction from side to side, tries to shoo away the possibility. "It's just not feasible. I have_ factors _to consider: my future, my parents, my income. This is not at all what I should even think about. It's ludicrous. "_

_It's most certainly not the choice Kenma would make, and all the more reason for the resoluteness that fills his next words. "That’s exactly," he says, "why you should go."_

 

* * *

 

_Kenma is woken up by Keiko, the gray neighborhood cat, knocking over a series of pots in her hunt for a frantic mouse. He cracks open the window to tell her off, only managing to catch her haughty, bottlebrush tail vanishing around the corner._

_Keiko's abrupt disturbance seems to be the world's cue to contribute to the ever important assignment, Mission: Annoy Kozume Kenma, A Twenty Six Year Old Game Developer Who Just Wants to Eat Apple Pie and Minds His Own Damn Business. Even the trees, their bareness stark and at least quiet among the budding blooms, are humming with an audible liveliness that’s getting on Kenma’s last nerve._

_If the days were annual periodicals, the headline would be, "Hey, Kenma, what's this about Akaashi quitting his job?", with the tonal inquisitions ranging from accusing to wholly unconcerned._

_The accuser is Akaashi's own father, who seems to think Kenma has played some role in this conspiracy. And to a degree it's true, so Kenma mumbles noncommittal responses rather than lying, somehow managing to evade the worst of the questions._

_The wholly unconcerned is Konoha, whose response to Kenma’s aggrieved “Hello?” is, "So he finally did it, huh?" with no small amount of grudging admiration._

_"Knew he had it in him!" Komi yells in the background._

_"Akaashi_ does _have his own phone number," Kenma points out._

" _He's not picking up," Konoha says._

" _We tried," Washio pipes up._

_Kenma sighs, and peeks into Akaashi's room. Sure enough, Akaashi's iPhone lies unplugged on his immaculately made bed - that would explain the violin ringtone Kenma had been hearing all morning._

_When Akaashi finally comes back that evening, Kenma just gives him a look._

" _I'm sorry, I know," and Akaashi has the grace to look abashed. "I just needed space to make sure I knew this was what I wanted to do."_

_And this is one of the moments where Kenma knows Akaashi is living in a cramped, two bedroom apartment because he wants to be there. He values quiet, independence, and the mundane, more than he values material comfort. That for many of the cohabiting decisions they make together, there remain many choices they still must make alone._

_"Did you?" Kenma says. He already knows, but wants to give Akaashi the satisfaction._

_"Submitted my letter of resignation," Akaashi says, loosening the knot in his tie, and pulls it over his head. "Guess I don't need this."_

_They say nothing more about it. Akaashi doesn't whoop, doesn't cheer, and Kenma doesn't expect him to. But he brings back a bottle of wine along their takeout, and settles next to Kenma as they eat. He falls asleep in front of the TV as usual. For once, his weight on Kenma's shoulder is heavy, full with the weight of him - like he's already made the hardest decision of flinging himself from a height, and falls with all he has._

 

* * *

 

_After receiving his hiring letter, Akaashi has a week to prepare - and that gives Kenma a week to adjust to the idea of living alone._

_The problem is not bills or rent. Kenma is a terrible sprawler - Shouyou says as much, laughing every time he comes over to find items flung about to form a Kenma-shaped hole on the rug. And yet, the problem is space - too much of it._

_As they carry on, everything is the same. Kenma goes to work, while Akaashi goes out to buy what he needs and visit the people he needs to see. Sometimes, they come over first; Kenma might come back to find Kunimi and Tsukishima lolling and Bokuto by the front door. Bokuto's talking a mile a minute about how great Akaashi is, while Kunimi and Tsukishima have regret etched all over their faces. Their apartment can't accommodate an entire volleyball team, but it's to be expected, Kenma supposes, attempting to fit eighteen fully grown young men into the living room._

_He can't help feeling, in a sense, that they're paying their respects to a soul that will soon be on leave._

_It's always raucous nowadays, exactly what Kenma doesn't like. He wants to slip away, but compromises and stays in the beanbag chair instead, electronic devices in his room and letting people approach him first._

_Akaashi is apt at socializing in a way Kenma is not. He is grace, though his manners are not; he responds in the same, blunt way he does to keep Bokuto and others like him in line, and Akaashi’s friends laugh, charmed, rather than turning away._

_With three days before Akaashi’s departure, his friends converge at the apartment. Kenma notices Kuro, who's speaking to Tsukishima, glance Kenma's way a few times, but he doesn't approach._

_Bokuto slings an arm around his friend. "Safe travels, Akaashi!" he crows, beer bottle raised. "We'll miss you, so don't forget us. Especially me!"_

_"How could I forget you, Bokuto-san?" Akaashi manages to be both dry and affectionate at the same time. "You're larger than life, and the only one who I'd ever act as a coat stand for."_

_And until the end of the evening, Bokuto's smile is brilliant._

" _You didn't mention how long you'd be gone," Kenma says, much later, when he can hear his voice without raising it, long after Akaashi's co-workers had so generously offered to help clean everything up._

_"I said a year to everyone who asked."_

_"You didn't tell me that."_

_"Because..." Akaashi breathes out, and Kenma doesn't miss the fluttering shadows of his eyelashes, "Because I don't actually know."_

_Kenma sits up, ignoring the grating noise of his hand scraping against the beanbag chair's fabric. Taking that as alarm, Akaashi continues. "I've made enough for quite a while, and I'll send you what I have. Ennoshita-san wants to get photography and film footage for certain environments for a documentary he has in mind. It's impossible to say how long that'll take."_

_"So you'll stay..."_

_"I'll stay as long as they'll have me."_

As long as they'll have me.

_"A long time, then," Kenma says, and catches the surprised flash of pride that's reflected in Akaashi's returning gaze._

 

* * *

 

_For Akaashi’s last full day in Japan, he wakes up at his usual time: 6:30 a.m._

_Despite his best efforts to keep quiet, Kenma hears him bustling in the kitchen, making his favorite oolong tea and breakfast. At this, Kenma usually buries himself in his pillow and shuts his eyes. But the gravity of such a mundane scene, soon to be gone, hits him._

_“Up early,” Akaashi says. “Tea?”_

_“OK,” Kenma says, stifling a huge yawn. “What are you doing today?”_

_“Something, hopefully.” Akaashi cocks his head, and sets Kenma’s big cat-shaped mug next to his own owl one on the counter._

_Kenma squints at Akaashi, whose voice remains light. But his eyes are clear without any tiredness, so when he doesn’t elaborate, Kenma sighs. “My brain’s nowhere near functional until at least three hours from now. If you’re trying to tell me something, you’ll have to be a bit more direct, because I’m not going to get it.”_

_Their hot water thermos sings the first notes of “Canon in D”. Akaashi says nothing at first, filling Kenma’s mug first with boiling hot water, with his back to Kenma. “I wondered if you had something in mind. I want to spend it with you.”_

_Kenma’s voice catches in his throat. He croaks, “You said you were going to be busy saying goodbye to people.”_

_“Yes, and you’re the last one." Akaashi drops a tea bag into the mug. "I set aside the whole day.”_

_He extends his arm then - first, to set the mug in front of Kenma, and then to unthinkingly flick a piece of Kenma’s golden cowlick into place._

_Kenma feels his hair float almost as if by a cursory breeze. He leans his elbows on the hard counter and wraps his hands around his mug, his skin protected by his oversized cream sweater. “What do you want to do?”_

_"Nothing in particular. Just nothing extravagant, is all."_

_"Our whole time together, then."_

_Akaashi's lip curls. "That's a bit of an overexaggeration. But yes, I agree. With so many days at farewell parties and dinners, I think nothing extravagant is a good way to round things off."_

 

* * *

_They stop at all of the old haunts. (Old now, and soon to become even older, Kenma thinks.)_

_The old arcade where Kenma whiled away hours on games or doing homework at the tables with watered down black tea. Akaashi joined him at the tables back before Kenma finally made a copy of the key, never with more than two different stacks of papers and a textbook at a time to maximize the tiny circular table space. Gaming, to Kenma, is no longer a nostalgic past time; it still retains its components of strategy and escapism, but it isn't something he can merely enjoy to get away from what needs to be done. In ways, it has become both._

_Today he stays at the table, while Akaashi idly twirls his tasteless tea with his thin gray cardigan pushed up past his elbows. Kenma thinks about making conversation, but that would make the day_ something _more than nothing extravagant. Even so, the arcade owner does his work for him, commenting on how little he's seen of the two of them lately. While Akaashi has no choice but to engage, Kenma fiddles away on his phone, vaguely hearing their conversation as Akaashi explains the busyness of university life upon nearing their graduation._

" _A degree in gaming development for Kozume-kun, hm?"_

_"Kenma," Kenma insists. As he's grown older, he's learned the importance of honorifics to the wider world, no matter what he thinks. So he fights and wins these small battles, where he can._

_"Ah, that's right. My apologies, Kenma-kun, I forgot you preferred that. See how long you've been gone?" Maeda-san refills their drinks without them asking._ " _And economics for you, Akaashi-kun? What an accomplishment!"_

" _Thank you, Maeda-san."_

_"I've heard you're going away. Exciting new international job in a world that's even more bustling than here, eh?"_

_"Something like that," Akaashi says, the words not insincere but rehearsed nonetheless. His eyes flick briefly to meet Kenma's, and it seems he's had this conversation many times this week. Akaashi won't explain more than he needs to, and only the people closest know the truth. Kenma smiles into his hand, one that Akaashi doesn't miss. "I heard you're just became a grandfather, Maeda-san?"_

_"Oh, yes! Would you like to see her?" Maeda rummages into his pocket for his phone. "Three and a half kilograms, born pink as a peach and loud as a jackhammer." He chuckles._ " _My wife saw her in the trees, you know."_

_"Saw her?" Akaashi politely asks._

" _I know, I know. We should focus more on the input, shouldn't look too closely at the output. Might start believing they're prophecies and all that. But they’re only as good as hopes, as bad as hallucinations. Makes them dangerous if we think they're real, you know. And devastating to the wrong sort of person! But Miwa was coming home after a day of shopping, and swears she saw Reiko-chan just like that among the branches - pink and wailing. It couldn't have been our own daughter; she was born very quiet." He pauses to wipe something from his eyes. "Anyway, she's just - perfect."_

_"She's lovely," is all Akaashi says, smiling. As he leans forward to ask Maeda-san, seemingly to inquire more about Reiko-chan the peach, he glances at Kenma again._

_Kenma scrapes his chair back. "We have to go, Maeda-san. Congratulations."_

_"Do drop in, Kenma-kun!" the old man says. "Akaashi-kun, best of luck."_

" _Yes, sir," Akaashi says, and they leave, their cups empty._

 

**

 

 _Akaashi blinks when they get off at a rarely visited stop, make unfamiliar turns, climb the long ascent. "This doesn't count as_ nothing extravagant. _And it's starting to rain._ "

_"Yeah," Kenma says. "But it can't hurt." And he leads, their lack of an umbrella spurring them past the other visitors slowly wending their way up, and past the flood of visitors not wanting to linger too long in the wet._

_"Kenma, we don't need to-"_

_"Yes, we do," Kenma says, and reaches out. Their adjoining hands are lost in the river of humanity trickling down the steps._

_Disregarding the water emptying itself from the heavens, he lights their incense sticks, aware of their hands also catching with warmth as he passes Akaashi his. Placing the stick into the ash, he presses his hands together and closes his eyes, all too aware of Akaashi next to him doing the same._

Please, let Akaashi find what he's looking for.

_The rain ceases, but the pattering continues. Kenma opens his eyes in confusion to find a bubble umbrella over his head._

_The young woman holding it, coiffed and elegant if a little nervous, appears vaguely familiar._

_"Ya…” and it takes him a moment, “Yachi-san?"_

_"Oh! You know me. Uh. Hi. Hello! Uh." She flushes to her very hair roots. "Give me a minute…. Ah!” She claps her hands together like a prayer, the umbrella hook serving as her incense stick. “Kenma-san!”_

" _Yes,” Kenma says, slightly alarmed at how happily she smiles. “I was at the joint training camp... Shouyou's friend-"_

_He's interrupted when Yachi takes his hand to vigorously shake it, bowing at the same time. "Kenma-san! Yes, hello, hello! It's been a long time! So sorry it took me a while to remember. I know you, I do."_

_"It's all right. Thank you for sheltering us, Yachi-san," Akaashi says. He's watching Yachi, and Kenma wonders what Akaashi wished for. "I'm-"_

_"Akaashi-san, yes!" and it's his turn to have his hand wrung and be energetically greeted. "My, what a coincidence!" She steps back to beam at them, and even on this dreary day, she shines. Like Shouyou, Kenma thinks. "I hope you've been well? We wouldn't meet at this shrine on such a miserable day if we weren't both on urgent business."_

_"I'm going abroad," Akaashi says. "For a job."_

_Yachi clasps her hands together, eyes wide. "Is that so? That's so exciting, Akaashi-san. I'm sure you'll enjoy it and learn so much!"_

_"That's the idea. Hopefully things about myself, and what I'd like to do."_

_"And Kenma-san-?" Yachi turns her ever observant eyes to him. "Will you be all right? You can come see me, you know! Or I could come see you. Hinata - sorry, Shouyou - mentioned you live in Meguro. That's not far from where I live!"_

_"I wouldn't want to trouble you," Kenma says carefully, but Yachi looks sheepish for offering anyway._

" _Ah! It’s all right. Really!” Yachi eyes her own incense stick, carefully wedged to stand straight and tall. "Kageyama-kun - I'm sure you remember him, Shouyou's friend - is going to Germany for a training camp. So I'm praying for his safe travels and playing!" She looks even more sheepish. "I think it can't hurt, you know, to give them a little extra luck. I barely have time to fit anything besides work in my schedule, but I feel like I have to do this for them. I'm sure you understand."_

_"It doesn't feel like a proper farewell without it," Akaashi says, and Kenma gets the distinct feeling he’s being watched._

_"Yes, exactly! But I'm meeting someone here, so I'll be off soon." She glances at them, and then the long way down the stairs. "But if you want, I could go with you and come back-"_

_"We're fine,” Akaashi hastily answers. “A pleasure, Yachi-san."_

" _Sure! Of course!"_

_A moment after Yachi waves goodbye, Kenma hesitates, then turns back to the altar. He lights another stick._

_“Who’s that for?” Akaashi asks._

_“Shouyou,” Kenma says, and claps his hands together. “He must be envious.”_

_Akaashi’s shoes lack the proper grip to keep their owner balanced on the slick concrete surface. He curses as he nearly goes down, and manages to seize the handrail just in time. Even so, Kenma takes him by the arm, offering little in way of practicality, but providing something more than merely someone to fall on._

_To make their way back to the road, to civilization, they must start at the top, looking down the steps. The trees all blur together, wood on wood and leaf and leaf. From here, it's unclear whether the trees have merely branches and haze, taking counterfeit greenery from the trees behind them._

 

**

 

_"Funny that for how close we lived to this park, we barely visited it," Akaashi says._

_It’s one of the places that they spare a passing glance, and the part of this park that makes it_ home _is in how little they’ve seen it._

_“You didn’t go through it on your evening runs?” Kenma asks._

_“It seemed more familiar being unfamiliar,” Akaashi says. “Besides, I preferred the main roads. Silence is nice, but I miss the noise sometimes, too. Got used to being around noisy environments.”_

_Children scream as they build worlds in the sandbox, only to knock them down again. Still more call to each other in delight on the swings and the playground, their parents supervising in varying levels of attention._

_They rest on a bench, sharing the seat with a dozing tortoiseshell cat. It stirs upon hearing the creak of wood and the new weight, but welcomes Akaashi’s firm hand atop its head._

_“Watch out!” calls a voice, and Kenma deftly catches the Frisbee that soars towards them. “Nice catch!” says the kid who retrieves it, and races back to join his friend for the tosses that the dying light will permit. In the darkening sky, the memory trees are cloaked further in what-ares and what-aren’ts and long shadows that pull on the ground at nothing at all._

_Kenma picks at the frayed threads of his jacket sleeve, staring out at the endlessness. Another day has ended, as days tend to do, and it’s the end of what he knows for now._

_“What do you see?” Akaashi’s lounging with his long fingers neatly interlaced behind his head. “Don’t look head-on. Just from where you are.”_

_Kenma can only see sparks and vague shapes in his periphery. All he can do is describe what he thinks he sees, but it’s not like he’d do anything differently if he’d turned his head to directly face the trees._

_“A chair made of synthetic leather,” he says, mentioning the first thing that comes to mind upon seeing the dark shape loom. He knows what it is._

_Sometimes, Akaashi knows better. “The one we assembled for my room when we first moved in?”_

_“Maybe.” Indeed it is, the more Kenma thinks about it. He thinks about coming to this park, and returning to an apartment that’s too large for him._

" _Don't look for me." Akaashi’s words are a warning. “Especially in what’s not there,” and Kenma remembers having significant trouble attaching the chair’s seat to its back, making the holes align. He himself perched in the chair to provide additional weight, while Akaashi pressed down to make the parts fit._

_The trees that line the path and carry on to the avenue beyond whisper among themselves._

_“What do_ you _see?” Kenma asks._

_“I see… the telltale red X at the subway turnstiles.”_

_“Telltale? So, wrong way. Or someone attempting to enter, only to be rejected. Misgivings?”_

_“Maybe.”_

_“Don’t look back, then.” Kenma rolls his eyes. “We both need a sense of achievement. Starting over doesn’t mean you failed at what you were doing before, you know.” He straightens up, and further worries his too long sleeves. “I got you a going away present.”_

_Akaashi catches his eye. Something dry’s on the edge of his tongue, like “What happened to nothing extravagant?” But he seems to understand what Kenma’s saying, what’s been true about today ever since they both woke up: this is not extravagant, nor a normal day._

_The children had already vanished with the onset of night, like clumsily made ghosts that are ill fitted for the dark._

_Kenma roots in his backpack, and pulls out two things. “I didn’t see the point in wrapping them,” he says, and his heart aches when Akaashi’s piercing glance is illuminated by twilight, when Akaashi takes the farewells from his hands. “I got you started, even if it’s not a very good first log.”_

_“Hm,” Akaashi says, for a moment furtive, and then his smile is wide and unmistakeable. “Come here.”_

_Kenma leans in, and closes his eyes when the weight of Akaashi’s chin lightly rests on his head and Akaashi presses him close, enveloping him in warmth. Akaashi rubs slow circles into his back._

_“I didn’t want to leave with regrets, with anything concerning you most of all,” Akaashi murmurs. Kenma can’t see him, but his hands are warm and firmly hold on to all he can. “So, I love you. I have. I don’t know if I will.”_

_It’s a confession, Kenma reflects later, of the selfish kind. The sort to lighten the load before going on a long journey, a burden only in its lack of necessity and not its value. Commitment isn’t there, because it can’t be guaranteed, and if it is tentatively given, will only crumble all the faster if given the most unsteady of foundations. Akaashi gives only what he knows he can give and Kenma understands, on a plane where pragmatism rules and they know better than to give faulty promises. They should know better._

Should _, though - what does that even mean? Like the universe has events set in place, lines in its hearth grooved with memory, and they both know memory’s too fickle for such a thing to be possible._

 _Then again, the most_ should _Akaashi could have done, the both of them could have done, was to look away from dreams and truth and the past and the future and the spaces in between, to what is, and that’s all. What was the point? What will come tomorrow? These don’t matter to Kenma; he only sees what’s here and now (Akaashi’s presence here, then gone). They don’t matter, they don’t._

_He stares at the dark desk, or what he can make of it from the bed. He senses, rather than sees, the camera which waits in a compact rucksack. Its owner sleeps with the quiet, steady breathing of a motionless lake teeming with unsteady currents beneath, his head lolling on Kenma’s shoulder, arm curled loosely around Kenma’s middle._

 

* * *

 

 _Taifu 0530,_ otherwise known as _Typhoon Jongdari,_ pays the larger Tokyo area a visit in mid-August, its fury greater in the lease of a summer determined to make its mark. To the relief of students and workers alike, school, work, and all public transportation systems are suspended until the storm passes.

All Kenma can do is wait. He knows what that’s about, waiting for the year’s difference between himself and Kuroo in their younger years before they’re reunited at the same school, waiting the distance until he matches with someone or other, waiting. _Always_ waiting for something.

And then suddenly, Kenma is tired of waiting. But this is not the sort of storm he can run from; it is the sort he must batten down and wait, with a horrible itch beneath his skin. He heads outside one last time to buy some easy to prepare instant food. Not out of the ordinary, but now he has an excuse.

It is on his way back that he meets the cat. A nondescript and mottled tortoiseshell of a creature, she darts out and nearly trips him in her dash for the bushes.

“Oi,” Kenma snaps, before he remembers he’s speaking to a cat, and continues down the downcast path.

The cat tips her head, blinks large amber eyes, and proceeds to follow.

“Go home.”

She trots faster to match him step for step.

Kenma notes its collarless neck. They continue on in silence, a droll on the cat’s part and a disgruntled one on Kenma’s. Dogs bark in the distance, and the wind rattles the flapping cloth advertisement for a real estate agency. Bicycles have been stashed elsewhere, the usual greenery lining the streets taken inside. Kenma is like everyone else, stocking up once last time before the storm, their metaphorical heads down with their focus on survival. Even the trees have nothing to offer, their luster dimmed. The family friendly neighborhood has quickly transformed into a veritable ghost town, and the collective atmosphere is one of bated breath.

To Kenma’s bemusement, the cat follows him up to his front door, tipping her head again. _Well?_ She seems to say. _Let’s go home_.

“Look, I can’t let you in. Stay under the awning if you want.”

The cat swishes her tail.

“Don’t be rude.” There’s some irony here; he knows it, they both do.

The cat stops, and Kenma darts behind her to close his door.

He puts the groceries away, stuffs towels under the doors to muffle the howling of the coming winds, and checks the windows are properly shut. The pot Keiko the neighborhood cat smashed is still lying in pieces, and Kenma thinks about where she is: safely shut in with her owners, on her back, being brushed and fussed over. Kuroo and Shouyou are both far from Japan with no concerns of a typhoon, antagonizing and charming people in only the way they can.

Then there’s Akaashi in his freezing cabin, grateful for the slightest hints of warmth he can find, from insulation in his sleeping bag and his thermal clothes, sheltered from a blizzard.

Sometimes, all a home needs to be is a temporary roof over a head.

Kenma opens the door.

“Hurry up, then.”

The cat purrs as she trots past, lightly brushing against his knees. She curls up at the other end of the couch, supremely unconcerned about taking up another person’s space. Kenma feels a stab of annoyance.

“You’re leaving tomorrow,” he tells the cat. “As soon as the weather clears up.”

The cat yawns. _Sure_ , she says, already comfortable.

Kenma spends his evening reading a book plucked from Akaashi's room, a small volleyball manual, playing a first person shooter, and thinking about work tomorrow (Kenma’s team is starting development on an online game). He's about to go to sleep, snug in his covers with the typhoon howling outside, when he remembers the cat, last tucked against the couch.

She still lies at the corner where Akaashi sits but taking far less space now she cowers in a ball, twitching at each fresh howl and tail jerking about. A renewed blast rattles the trees; the shattered pot pieces clang against something aluminum, and the cat flinches as deep into the fabric as she can.

Kenma considers the shadows that rake across the walls like frantic demons, and the petrified cat. Then he trots back to his room, yanks his dark green comforter and pillow off his bed, and returns to the living room, making enough of a noise with his feet that the cat hears him above the outside noise. Momentarily distracted, she watches Kenma place his pillow at the opposite end of the couch and climb in, making himself warm again in his blanket. He touches the cat’s back with the side of his heel.

“Don’t sit on my face,” he says, not taking chances with his mild fur allergy. But the cat seems to settle for being wedged in next to his feet, sharing a part of the blanket for warmth. She shifts and curls once, and then lies still.

Kenma, on the other hand, tosses about to find a spot on the couch that isn’t too lumpy, careful not to crush the cat. The outside noise doesn’t bother him (it’s nothing, compared to sleeping with entire volleyball teams throughout high school and university), and finally finds a good position on his side. When Kenma breathes in at the very edge of the couch arm, alpine crispness fills his nostrils. Akaashi’s draped their laundry there, so often the scent’s as part of the couch as its fabric.

As Kenma’s eyes droop closed, noises ebb and flow in his ears: a meow, this one entirely human, one of Kuro’s attempts to annoy Kenma over the years; the displeased rush of air as his coworker Miwa puffs her cheeks when Kenma informs her that her graphic English T-shirt is indeed saying something graphic, and she retorts, “Well, maybe I _wanted_ to be controversial!”; the warm, sweet scent of apple - no, blueberry pie; the zip of a tent, scratch of a nib on paper, and a thump as someone falls back onto their sleeping bag. And then, a great sigh.

Kenma won’t remember in the morning.

 

* * *

 

_“Whoa, there really are tons of people!” Bokuto’s leading the group, seeing as he’s only one in good enough spirits to herd them through the crowd. With a firm grasp on Kuroo’s shoulder, he calls over his shoulder. “How ya doin’, Kenma, Akaashi?”_

_“I’d be fine if I was comfortably in my bed, asleep,” Kenma mutters. Kuroo opens his mouth to respond, only to break into another massive yawn. Kenma didn’t know Kuroo’s mouth could even open that wide; he vaguely wishes something would fly into it, because of course visiting the fish market at the crack of dawn was Kuroo’s idea. Only a week away from Bokuto and Kuroo’s graduation, and this is their first proper outing as a foursome outside of volleyball: packed like sardines, accompanied by the heavy scent of salt brine with undertones of odious fish._

_Akaashi appears to have heard nothing. He resembles one of the undead with his half shut eyes, dark undereye circles, and a tousled bedhead that makes a valiant attempt at matching Kuroo’s. He earns dirty looks from three tourists before Kenma, mimicking Bokuto’s hold on Kuroo, resignedly takes him by the arm to steer him away from more incoming traffic._

_“Let’s go!” Bokuto says, tugging Kuroo along with him. “Come on, Kenma!”_

_“I’m staying here,” Kenma mutters. They’re in the road just outside of the market, and the scent of fish and turnover of watchful eyes are already overwhelming. Kuroo’s too sleepy to even attempt to persuade him._

_Bokuto turns to plead with Akaashi, sees he might as well be speaking to a wall, and shrugs. “Well, let’s see what this market’s got!” he says, undeterred, and hauls Kuroo off toward the conglomeration of waiting stalls._

_When he’s gone, Kenma drifts - also to the light, but towards the standardized, fluorescent glare of a Family Mart. He orders a hot tea and settles at the long counter and, after making sure Akaashi is seated and won’t topple over backwards, takes out his phone. He doesn’t expect any local replies, and yet the one he receives is from the only person who would message him without any regard for the lateness of the hour._

 

From: Hinata Shouyou

To: Kozume Kenma

Time: 04:36:48

Subject: GERMANY!!!

the german men’s volleyball team invited us to a joint practice camp! kageyama thought only he was invited, and that... makes sense. turns out he misinterpreted the email (being unable to read german wasn’t his fault, but not scrolling down to see the translated japanese version was), and the whole team’s going!!!! my first time in europe!!!!!! do you want anything??? what does germany have??? i heard they’ve got good beer, can i even bring that back???

 

_The message is sent using the electric phone tower, but such is Shouyou’s ecstasy that excitement oozes from every word, in that nondescript space between what Kenma’s reading and what he’s taking in._

_Kenma leans over his phone, poised to type a reply, when a heavy weight tips against him. When Kenma looks over his shoulder, all he can see is a mop of messy dark hair, precariously lolling against his back._

_His lips pull up at the corners, despite the hour, and sits up straight._

 

From: Kozume Kenma

To: Hinata Shouyou

Time: 04:39:12

Subject: GERMANY!!!

That’s great. And I don’t need anything. Enjoy yourself.

 

* * *

 

_They’re in the middle of star watching, Kenma and Akaashi, Kenma’s PSP placed carefully next to him. The squeaking shoes, thuds of connections with the volleyball both successful and missed, and the yells of triumph and frustration would perhaps disturb an astronomer serious about his craft. But Kenma and Akaashi are two teenagers who perform the craft of volleyball well enough and aren’t serious about the secrets of the universe; the flurry of activity is second nature to them, as they watch the first and original source of their origins above._

_“How’s_ that _for a counterattack!” Bokuto’s voice rings out from inside the gym, followed by the enthusiastic smack of palm on palm and Hinata’s “ow”._

_Kenma can practically see the steam rising from the gym; with the trees this near, perhaps he does. “I have no idea how Bokuto-san keeps up that energy,” he says._

_“I’d ask the same of everyone else.” Akaashi adjusts to sit cross-legged, his back to the outside of the gym wall. “How they can still play full sets when everyone else is relaxing or practicing serves is anyone’s guess.”_

_They lapse back into silence._

_He blinks at the sudden glow and noise of a shutter. Akaashi huffs as he examines his screen, then pockets the phone. “Impossible to get good night sky shots,” he explains._

_“Didn’t bring your camera?”_

_“Didn’t want to risk getting distracted from training.”_

_“Well, the night view’s the same around here, anyway.”_

_“Not exactly. I was trying to capture that.” Akaashi points - not up, but away across the track lined by bare trees. “A bit distorted through there, like the sky’s from somewhere else. I always see the same thing. Sarukui-san says he switches between the smell of a sweet potato and his hometown, but I don’t think he was serious.”_

_Kenma trains his eyes there; if he turns his concentration away from the ruckus and the yells of “Got it!” and “Chance ball!”, another noise pounds in his ears. “I hear our first and only dodgeball game. Courtesy of Bokuto-san, of course.”_

_“Of course. Let’s have another one at our first training camp as captains.”_

_“Never again. That’s not-” Kenma starts, then backtracks. “Captains? Plural? You’re not serious.”_

_“Why would I joke about that?” The light from the gym illuminates Akaashi’s face, and he’s not smirking._

_“I’m not captaining a team. Especially a team of hooligans-”_

_Akaashi snorts. “Save for Shibayama, that’s apt. But hooligans do need someone to make sure their efforts aren’t wasted.”_

_“I’m not captain,” Kenma insists, a little irritated. But this is where he and Akaashi deviate - one who’s accepted his fate, and one uninterested in it. “I don’t care about that. I just want to play Shouyou at Nationals.”_

_“Isn’t captain the best place to guarantee that? Everyone looks to you anyway.” Akaashi leans back. “It’s a title, Kozume. It’s what you make of it.”_

_“Easy for you to say,” Kenma says, a bit sulkily._

_“I’d follow Bokuto-san anywhere. Well, or talk him out of going anywhere we shouldn’t go. But things have been far from easy.” A beat, and then Akaashi ventures, “What has Kuroo-san said about your captaincy?”_

_Kenma thinks. Kuroo hasn’t technically_ said _anything_ ; _he’d start an argument if he did. But there are strong hints of the old guard slowly relinquishing their grip - Kuroo and Yaku passing the management of the first years along to the second years, and Kai scaling back his communication during matches (Kenma’s heard Fukunaga’s voice more in the past month than he’s heard it in the past two years). And then there are the situations left to Kenma specifically, when he’s calling the shots on a play, or Nekomata and Naoi mysteriously vanishing as Lev asks, “What now?”, and he and the team turn to Kenma for solutions to everything from devising stratagems to finding Inuoka’s lost phone. Yaku would have been all for telling Kenma the news and unceremoniously tossing him the reins, while Kai would have told Kenma what he was doing with far more tact in that conversation than Kenma had in his entire body. No, it’s all been subtly, sneakily done, to ease Kenma into a position he didn’t even know he was capable of, and the setup screams of Kuroo’s doing._

_And the worst (or perhaps the best, Kenma refuses to even consider that) part is, that he trusts no one else but himself to steer this ship to where he wants it to go: towards Nationals, for his promised match with Shouyou, to take the team as high as they can climb._

_“Kuro said nothing about me becoming captain,” Kenma says, even as he knows he’ll give Kuroo a chewing out later, even as he knows he’s fighting a losing battle._

_Akaashi raises a skeptical eyebrow. He doesn’t have the tact to shrug or indulge Kenma enough to give him the last word. “Nationals makes people rethink their choices. You’d be surprised.”_

_“What did you learn last year, then?”_

_“That we’ll work even harder to get to Nationals again this year, and win. And -” Here, Akaashi’s eyes flick away from the sky that exists only in the trees, to look Kenma straight on, “We look forward to playing Karasuno in a match. Everyone does. But I want to play Nekoma, too. It’s the third-years’ last chance, and Bokuto-san’s mentioned playing Kuroo-san one last time would be a satisfying end to his high-school career.”_

_“Kuro’s said as much,” Kenma says, his tone unassuming._

_“It’s a deal, then?”_

_“Deal.”_

_Words spent, they return to silence. If Kenma looks hard enough at the sky proper, he can see lines in it, too - of futures that twinkle because they constantly change, and converge._

 

* * *

 

_Chance balls become last chances, and the sweat that’s trickled down from Kenma’s neck everywhere (the Fukurodani Group campuses, on the platforms in his dash for the train, on the squeaky floors in his home school’s gym) comes from one source, who trades perspiration for experience._

_He’s given his all to play Shouyou. They had the match of their lives, no holds barred. And with one rung step higher on the ladder, Kenma meets his next challenge. He’s spent; he doesn’t know if he has more to give. But he must._

_“Let’s have a good match,” he says in a monotone, as he clasps Akaashi’s hand. Kenma would say something more interesting, but he’s not about to expend mental energy on a catchy clapback if he can help it._

_“Tired?” Akaashi asks without the accompanying smirk. And then, with concern, “How’s your finger? That last ball looked like it hurt.”_

_“I’ll ice it afterward.” Kenma's finger throbs an unnatural pulse in Akaashi’s grip, but there's nothing that can be done until after the match, for better or worse._

_They part, but not entirely. Akaashi lets Kenma go, until he's holding on only to the tips of Kenma's fingers._

_"Akaashi, it's fine._ I'm _fine.” Kenma smiles._

_Akaashi’s face clouds over for one moment more. Then, he nods, accepts Kenma’s words. “All right. I knew we’d see you here.”_

_Surety with Akaashi means the certainty in what he says. Kenma curls his fingers lightly around Akaashi’s. “I had no doubt.”_

_And Akaashi smiles back._

_“That said.” Kenma lets go, speaking loudly enough to sate the curiosity of both teams, wondering what the holdup is, “If we lose, we’ll have no excuse - and neither will you. When you lose, you’ll lose fair and square.”_

_It always gives him pleasure to watch Akaashi’s smile twist into something fierce. “It’s much too early to make a statement like that. When did you care about the outcome of a match?”_

_“Starting now,” Kenma says, just to see the irritation spasm on Akaashi’s forehead._

\--

_Kenma prefers most of the people he knows at a distance. It’s why he tolerates dorm living at university for the mandatory two years before moving out, and why he chooses to stay in a suburban neighborhood like Meguro (his parents have since moved somewhere noisier), accustomed to the commute into the city to attend his school._

_His cooking skills are, in his own words, "edible". Kuroo forces him to learn, puts his own frantic schedule on hold so he can stand in the tiny, muggy kitchen and teach Kenma to cook._

_"Kuro, I'll survive. There are conbini and restaurants where I'm going." Kenma protests to deaf ears, as he and Kuro hold a handle each of a heavy paper bag on the way back to Kenma's house for the first lesson._

_"That's the point. With those places around, you'll never cook anything on your own."_

_"So what's the point in teaching me?"_

_"The hope that one day, you'll make something from scratch, even if it's just because you're sick of eating the same preservative and MSG-laden food, and live a little longer."_

_"You don't have to do it this summer."_

_Kuroo sighs. "But I have to, Kenma. I have my debate club, internships, and I was thinking about studying abroad. I don't know if I'll have time after this summer to spend with you, and you need to take care of yourself."_

_"I don't need to take care of myself. Akaashi will cook."_

_"Kenma."_

_"Akaashi_ might _cook. And 7-Eleven’s not going anywhere."_

_Kuroo huffs. "You two get along well enough. I just don't know how living with Akaashi will go. This could go surprisingly well, or end in disaster. Akaashi likes things a very certain way."_

_"Shouyou saw Akaashi switch shoes. His socks were perfectly white."_

_"Oh, God. An athlete with perfectly white socks. Now you have to learn to cook. With your lack of redeeming domestic qualities, on top of your night owl tendencies-"_

_"He's an owl," Kenma says, facetiously. “And owls don’t wear socks.”_

_"Akaashi the human wears socks, and his_ high school mascot _was an owl. Anyway, he'll mail you back in a body bag, and how will I explain that to your parents?"_

_"I stayed up too many nights, playing games?" Kenma sighs. He understands the concern, but Kuroo takes these kinds of things far too seriously._

_Sure enough, Kuroo’s not amused. "People’ve actually died from doing that. I've forced you to sleep too many times for that to be funny."_

_Akaashi arrives with a few packed bags; within a few days, he's fully unpacked and moved in._

_It turns out Akaashi is not at all hard to adjust to, as far as roommates go. He's only strict on the things with deadlines, such as rent. Which is just as well, seeing as their landlord is also a stickler for due dates._

_Akaashi's a stickler about keeping their shared areas clean, which Kenma has a hard time adjusting to at first. Perhaps it's growing up with parents who bought him what he wanted and let him spread his things out when there weren't guests around, but he likes to lay things around the room. Easier to reach, he thinks, though Akaashi doesn't think so. Akaashi doesn't beat around the bush, and fortunately, neither does Kenma. Their disagreements have been short, but upfront, and they usually find some way to settle._

_The noise level is perfect for them both. Akaashi studies at the dining room table, pencil lightly held to his chin in thought. When Kenma's playing games in the living room, Akaashi retreats to his room. They don't enter each other's rooms for A Chat, or A "How Are You?"; both of them are not the type for small talk. They do ask each other about meals, and if the other wants to come along to places. Akaashi goes to the library often, while Kenma opts for the comfort of home._

_They attend different universities. Akaashi, being the high achiever, attends the national university for economics, while Kenma attends a public one for game development. They start at the same train route, until they reach the transfer station; Kenma stays, Akaashi leaves._

_When they have less obligations and assignments and Tasks Out in the World to Accomplish, they park themselves somewhere in the apartment. Anywhere, Kenma's found, is fine. The living room is a good place to watch an inane variety show together or play games (Akaashi is decent) or for Kenma to hook up his computer for them to watch movies, the kitchen good for occasional cooking, the dining room for any joined task requiring a hard surface, Akaashi's room for the kotatsu (and, Kenma admits to himself, to look at photos Akaashi's taped to the walls: of people, his volleyball team, the stars, the heights and lows). And to Kenma's own surprise, he doesn't feel intruded upon when Akaashi comes in to share the AC or the fan._

_"Hey! You were that setter captain at Nekoma, weren't you? Got them to nationals, yeah?" A young man with a rough bristle of a hairstyle calls to Kenma on his first day. "How about playing for us?"_

_Kenma blinks, at the man, and the others seated at the table who watch him with interest. He nods, and their eyes light up. "OK."_

_If club activities get in the way of his studies he'll quit, he tells himself. If it's too troublesome, it's fine to stop. It was easier to deal with all the inconveniences in high school with Kuroo at his side through it all, and the displeasure Kenma feels in the heat and cold is heightened when he’s on his own._

_"I've been thinking," Akaashi says six months into their living arrangement, his arms crossed at the table. "I want to run three times a week in the evenings, starting tomorrow. Want to come?"_

_There aren't many joggers in Tokyo, so they'll either have to take the roads or go to quieter land to run. Kenma looks at his games, gathered in a pile. After learning what goes into them, the technicalities and reasoning behind them all, he can no longer play them as mindlessly as he used to._

_"Maybe for just the first one," he says._

_Akaashi breaks into a short laugh. “I thought so. I’ll let you know when I go.”_

_They stand at the sink, Kenma washing the dishes, hands brushing as Akaashi puts the dishes away._

_When people look at Kenma, they assume he is a loner, that he enjoys being by himself. But living in a space where he can feel completely alone and completely with someone else - that is the home Kenma prefers._

 

* * *

The typhoon finally leaves two days later in the early morning. It’s all too reluctant to go, but the winds carry the darkest of the grey onward. The clouds are left with faint grey patches, rendering the sky as a canvas torn asunder, to reveal the light beneath. A slow trickle of people leave their homes, the rest having already prepared food for the day.

Kenma, on the other hand, is in no mood to appreciate the improved weather. He’s preoccupied with the bugs flying in through his open door, as he explains to a stray tortoiseshell cat why it should do what it doesn’t want to. “Bye,” he says, hopefully.

The cat stares at him. She has claimed Akaashi’s spot as its own, and as Kenma’s not sentimental enough to risk getting scratched again like the one time he tried to move the cat, he’s adjusted to seeing her there out of a reluctant necessity.

“I have work,” Kenma explains. When the cat just flicks her ears, he sprinkles a trail of tuna leading out of the apartment. “Come on,” he begs.

The most difficult people in Kenma’s life do what they’re told, if they’re told properly. For all the times he’s been reminded of his feline-like behavior, he has very little experience with pets, let alone real cats. He’s always let Lev handle any that approach them, a responsibility Lev has always taken with a seriousness bordering on comedy.

Perhaps the cat senses Kenma’s desperation; she rises off its haunches and outside without so much as glancing at the food. At any rate, Kenma locks the door and hurries to follow the small path that leads to the subway station.

Felled debris lies everywhere, and Kenma steps around a stray branch here, a wet clump of leaves there. But his mind is still occupied on what to do with that menace of a cat, and it’s only when he arrives at the path to find his way blocked by toppled trees, that a thought makes him feel like cold fingers are clawing their way up his insides.

_What if-?_

He breaks into a run. He’s late now, he’ll have to take the long way round to reach the station. _Calm down, calm down, speed walking is fine. But what if-?_ And that’s enough to send him sprinting again.

_“Name one of your strengths, Kozume-san. One others have said about you.”_

_“I see what is, and the logical conclusion. I don’t build to outcomes.”_

He thought his candidness would lose him that job; plenty of people hadn’t appreciated that quality throughout his life. But the interviewer merely nodded and moved on to the next question. She must have seen that _something_ in him - Kenma received the call a few days later and stammered an acceptance, praying she wouldn’t sense his headache from playing _Final Fantasy_ all night and his embarrassment at having kicked off his sweaty clothes in his sleep.

 _What is,_ and _what if_ , he’s always believed, are separate things. But they’re melding, the two, when he runs past the old man listening to the radio as he rides his bicycle. _“This is the morning news at nine o’clock. First, our headline: Tokyo’s seen some serious devastation at the hands of Typhoon Jongdari, starting with the memory trees blown down on-”_

Kenma arrives at the avenue, with mud splattered jeans and hoodie strings askew, to find the sky displayed as is, unhindered and senselessly blue. The off kilter, _wrong_ kind of pure blue.

He takes out his phone, uncaring for who sees him outside his work building and refusing to go in. He closes his eyes. No, that won’t change anything. He opens them, forces himself to scan the branchless horizon, and presses the phone to his ear, thinking. Feeling.

Nothing. No prickles of awareness tugging at the edge of his consciousness, pulling him into channels that take him where he wants to go. No mating calls of the Japanese bush warbler, or the crisp “Mind the platform gap” in a London subway carriage, or the isolated exhales of a man dressed in furs in the silence of a St. Petersburg winter morning - merely the flat noise of the dial tone, that drones on and on in his ear.

He looks about, and for a moment, considers ditching work to run across the avenue.

“Kenma?”

Miwa’s peering at him, dependably there with her usual attire of a graphic T-shirt, jeans, and long hair piled in its customary messy bun. One of her glasses lenses is, as usual, smudged. “Kenma, you seem a bit out of sorts.”

“I’m fine. I was about to go to work. I just saw - I need to check something- _if_ -” It’s that blasted word again, and he falls silent.

Miwa patiently waits until he’s done tripping over himself. “Uh, that’s nice. Well, I think you could use a hot drink. The coffeeshop over there’s not bad.”

“I’m fine. Really.”

“Of course. But you could be better.” Kenma’s about to protest, when she smiles. And she smiles like Kenma’s high school volleyball vice-captain: warmth one can’t refuse, a dagger in a still-warm ashen hearth. “Am I wrong?”

And that is how Kenma finds himself sitting in a booth, occasionally relinquishing his hands from around his hot apple tea to fiddle with the plushie placed next to him.

“Warmed up?”

“Yeah.”

“Hope it’s all right I ordered our drinks in to-go cups.”

“It’s fine. Thanks.”

“Sure.” She pours a packet of sugar into her cup of coffee. “Did you ride out the typhoon all right? How’s your family?”

“They’re fine.” His parents had since moved to Roppongi Hills; any clean up would be the maid’s job.

“My ceiling had quite the bit of leaking! My boyfriend had to balance on the dining room table to tape the crack shut. And my bird cried the whole night. Worst sleep I’ve ever had.”

“I took a stray cat home and slept with it on the lumpy couch because it was scared.”

“Look at you! Mind baby-sitting my bird some time? She’s good, I promise. She only bites and caws occasionally.”

“I’ll pass,” Kenma says.

“Your loss,” she says, grinning. “You know, Kenma, I haven’t heard you mention a girlfriend.”

“Well…” There’s something wrong about this situation, uncomfortable in that the person sitting across from him isn’t Kuroo, or Shouyou, or Akaashi himself. But they’re all off on their adventures, and while Kenma’s content where he is, it’s a little lonely. He’s known Miwa a year, after all, and she’s given no reason for him to doubt her. “It’s not so much a girlfriend...”

Miwa blinks, but doesn’t skip a beat. “Sorry. Your boyfriend? Your partner?” Her eyes widened. “The one who lived with you?”

“Before he left, he said he loved me,” Kenma blurts out.

“Oh. _Oh_. Well, that spices things up a bit. So do you, you know...” She rips open another sugar packet. “Do you love him back?”

“I don’t _know._ ” Kenma doesn’t raise his voice or change his tone. But he looks down, and his hands are shaking. “He didn’t expect a reply, but I wouldn’t have answered him anyway. He knew… I needed time to think, and he couldn’t wait.”

“But are _you_ waiting for _him_?” She stirs her coffee. “Kenma, it’s no good waiting for someone so flighty. You don’t know when he’ll come home.”

“It’s not like that. I’m not waiting, and he’s not flighty.” That for all of Akaashi’s indecision, he knew what he was doing. They both did. “I was the one who told him to go. So why do I feel so unsure about this?”

Miwa opens another sugar packet. “You can’t take into account every possible thing before making a decision, you know. It’s just not possible to anticipate all the outcomes. Even you, Mr. Tactician.”

“How about some more coffee in your sugar?” Kenma asks.

Miwa rolls her eyes. “Excuse you, I _anticipated_ total bliss before I added those sugar packets.”

When Kenma comes back from work, the cat is still lounging outside his apartment. Along with the cat stands the landlord; his arms are folded and his mouth set in a stern line, which can’t be good news.

“Kozume-san,” he says without preamble, “I sent prior notice I’d be entering residences to replace the doorknobs. You seem to have acquired a friend.”

“A friend?”

His landlord sighs, as if he’s playing dumb on purpose. “Of the animal variety.”

“... Oh.”

On cue, the cat scritches helpfully at the apartment door. Kenma unlocks it to prevent her leaving scratch marks on the wood, and she stalks her way inside.

“She doesn’t live here. She just won’t leave,” Kenma explains. Funnily enough, that’s how he’s acquired a number of his friends: the persistent types, who see something in him worth staying for.

“I’ve heard plenty of off-the-wall stories, Kozume-san, and that’s a poor excuse. You and Akaashi-san have been exemplary tenants, so I won’t charge you for however long you’ve already had this cat. But you do know that pets require an additional deposit and monthly rent?”

“No...”

“Well, now you know, and all pet owners must pay the deposit. So, is the cat yours or not?”

The cat curls around Kenma’s legs, all tortoiseshell fur and no intent to leave anytime soon, and he sighs. “She’s mine.”

 

* * *

 

**Keiji (12:30:06):**

**Kozume, I’m working late tonight. We’re out of garbage bags. Please buy more on your way home today. (Read 12:30:30)**

**Kenma (12:30:47):**

**I’m also working late tonight. (Read 12:31:01)**

**Keiji (12:31:43):**

**The 100 yen store is one of your stops back. (Read 12:31:52)**

**Kenma (12:32:16)**

**DAISO is one of yours. (Read 12:32:29)**

**Keiji (12:32:54)**

**I have to walk three blocks and cross the street to get there. (Read 12:33:15)**

**Kenma (12:34:03)**

**I need to travel three intersections on horseback, then fly over two towns with a hot air balloon. Oh, and barter with an old man at the dock to steer a decrepit battleship across eight oceans. (Read 12:34:10)**

**Keiji (12:34:48)**

**Very funny. Are you buying the trash bags or not? (Read 12:34:56)**

**Kenma (12:35:22)**

**I don’t see why you can’t buy them. (Read 12:35:32)**

**Keiji (12:36:14):**

**You might as well buy a bag large enough to cover your room. When was the last time you cleaned it? (Read 12:36:47)**

**_Kenma begins to type something in response, then backtracks. He presses dial, and waits for the ring._ **

 

_\--_

 

_“Hello?” Akaashi is thoroughly put out when he picks up. And for good reason, besides the tension between them; three phone conversations and the frantic rifling of papers are going on in the background._

_“Do we still have enough trash bags for today?” Kenma asks._

_A short pause. “We have two left. This week’s been hectic, but I would’ve_ _bought more, like_ I _always do.”_

_Kenma manages not to snipe back at that one. “Let’s buy them when we go on that run. Tomorrow night.”_

 

\--

 

_Even for someone who hates running as much as Kenma, the weather is perfect for it: mild, slightly breezy. Other runners speckle the roads around the river, taking advantage of the temperature and scenery to appreciate the swell of sakura blossoms lining the water’s edges._

_He doesn’t mind running anyway, if it’s like this: the only distinct sound being the slow tread of sneakers scraping on concrete that glows under the street lamps, Akaashi’s back in clear view, with the trees of visions standing at about three quarters the height of the sakuras._

_Amidst the flowerless branches, Akaashi studies. A small dimple appears where his pencil digs into his chin, the same way a frown digs into his eyebrows as he peers down at the economics textbook he’s reading. Kenma enters the kitchen, and lifts the pot to check on the slowly bubbling curry. Akaashi starts at the clang of the replaced lid on top of the pot, spotting Kenma as his frown unravels into something Kenma hasn’t experienced, but can name-_

_“Left at this light,” Akaashi pants, glancing back to make sure Kenma’s keeping up. “Did you hear?”_

_“Yes,” Kenma calls._

_But Akaashi slows down at the green light anyway, staying at a light jog until Kenma matches his pace._

_“I remembered just now,” Akaashi admits, towelling his face and hair, “I left my wallet on the dining room table.”_

_“I brought mine,” Kenma says, touching Akaashi on the shoulder._

_They have, Kenma thinks, as Akaashi reaches across his chest to briefly grasp Kenma’s hand, tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow._

 

* * *

 

The following are Kozume Kenma: a wire tower made of memory, or perhaps a memory tree emitting electrical signals.

He settles in for a night of work, switching on the PlayStation Zero-X and propping himself against the olive floor chair his team leader bought him, both as a welcome gift and in an attempt to improve his posture. As his team’s alpha tester, Kenma is responsible for noting his experience of the very initial playthroughs of _Sentry of the Overworld: Apocalypse_ (working title). He taps his laptop and it flips open, ready to dictate any voice commands he gives to record his impressions of the game.

The usual preceding notes on copyrights and ensuring the PlayStation’s sensor is connected to the correct outlet (electrical, not memory) scroll by. Which reminds him - he activates the memory charging on his phone, which was at a dangerous 1%.

Unlike his battery, Kenma is spent with no way to recharge. It’s been a year and a half of calls, of mustering something, anything, to pay the toll, and he’s running out.

“Glitched demon in the shadow level, after the first right on path. Stuck in mid-air, no movement, attacking it results in no effect. Same result after game reset.

“The first boss’s moveset is decent. Does a good job putting me through all the moves learned so far. Its design looks like a angry grandma wearing a baboon costume. I don’t have any suggestions for improvement. Please, just change it.”

“No indicative stray items at the beach. Unclear the player should head for the ocean, not the forest, and the ocean will open in a path. Got lost in the trees, cleaved in two by a spirit, and lost all my gold potions. Thanks.”

When he flips the TV stations back on, the first channel is airing a humdrum program, a debate style show with experts, scientists, and civilians on both sides. As they discuss the “ _danger of novelty_ ” and “ _long term exploitation of_ _commodity_ ”, Kenma looks over the notes in his laptop.

“ _Memory powered phones have been controversial, to say the least_ ,” a senior researcher says; her voice is rather piercing. “ _We’ve had to start from zero, in some regards; for example, photos can’t be sent over the available programs, and combining memory with electricity seems unwise without further research.”_

“ _Research? Deforestation was already devastating our forests; now, we’re paying an even higher costs for destroyed trees,”_ an environmentalist is passionately arguing. “ _We don’t even know what this memory stream’s capable of! We don’t know if it’s exploitative, or destructive, or its main resource. It’s mad, it’s dangerous to use it, when we don’t know a thing about it!”_

 _“Well, you can’t dispute the facts, Hideo-san,_ ” says one Dr. Fukuzaka. “ _What we do know - and we do have some information - is that all novel things become not-so-new; not because they’re corrupted in the sense that they were ever pure in the first place, but that we learn how to manipulate such forces. The desolation of a place may be positively correlated with the connection’s clarity, given there is enough fauna to supply such a connection. Which means, even in far reaching villages where electricity is unreliable or political stability renders face-to-face relations impossible, humans can still communicate with one another. For concerned loved ones, this is, as I’m sure you know, priceless._

_From that perspective, wouldn’t you agree harvesting memory is worth it?”_

 

* * *

 

After a time, Akaashi’s dependability falls away. A _certain time_ _at a certain place_ no longer works, because he’s journeyed to tundra too frozen for trees, or to a desert too dry for connections.

When they find the rare chances to speak, Kenma’s recounts are of his day-to-day life, but Akaashi’s sound like stories of another realm.

He is always somewhere different when they speak, with something new to describe. Ants with abdomens full of a sweet, pink, liquid similar to watermelon juice. A tree more than 30,000 years old, the exact trunk known only to the rangers so as to protect its identity. Rivers in lakes in oceans, worlds within worlds. A meadow so still he can hear his own heart, beating within his chest.

And the strange thing is, the more remote, the clearer the connection.

It would all sound too fantastical to Kenma, grounded in the urban and what he knows. Except Akaashi’s voice - still calm, observational - makes all the stories true. And it’s for the best Akaashi is not officially assigned to a role; to most he speaks the same way he always has. But Kenma hears the voice of a exhilarated man who had no time before, and now has too much of it to marvel at everything. Akaashi himself becomes something else, part of the strange worlds he describes, apart from Kenma and the life he built.

Though there remain locations, and moments where Akaashi still seems very much human in the snatches of prolonged time they get. He complains about how sick he is eating rice balls all day, every day. He asks about Kenma’s work, and the old woman at the fruit market who gave him extra peaches.

And then there’s the time he calls Kenma on a weekend, riding a gondola at the Rotorua Luge.

“It’s my turn.”

“Bye, then,” Kenma says, his mind already shifting away towards his plans for the evening.

“Wait. You should see this.”

Akaashi turns on his camera; he has two minutes before it turns off. For a moment, Kenma catches a glimpse of the same delicate features, and a perhaps more slightly weathered face, only to find Akaashi has propped his phone away, toward the lake.

“What are you doing?” Kenma demands. “Are you an idiot?”

“Trust me.”

Panic rises in Kenma’s gut. “Wait!” Should the phone break, Kenma will lose his only connection to Akaashi. “Wait! Don’t-”

“Go!” A staff member gives the signal.

“Akaashi!”

With a grind of wheels against gravel, Akaashi hurtles off.

Kenma's never seen Akaashi yell. Not even when Fukurodani made nationals in their third year, not when they beat Nekoma, not when their university team beat the toughest team in the prefecture. Not when he woke to the dead mouse Keiko left on their doorstep. Not even on the Kuzcotopia ride at Tokyo Disney, where Bokuto’s yells left him half deaf for the rest of the day.

All Kenma sees is the rolling hills of Rotorua, falling away in large ripples, the earth in frozen undulations of green that turn into liquid ripples at the lake’s mouth. The audio peaks as Akaashi hurtles down the hill at a pace both leisurely and brisk, and in the wind’s rush, Kenma hears a content sigh that could be human or the breeze.

He commits it all to memory.

 

* * *

If memories are dreams, then they are both the blissful reveries and the nightmares. Dreams are made for worse; they exist for worse. The dial tone’s not perfect; many people forfeit their once-a-day calls because they hear things they don’t want to hear, or endure what they hear for the sake of reaching the person on the other end of the line.

Kenma hasn’t experienced one of these _acid calls_ yet. But sometimes, he feels like passing his call along to people who need them, because the ache of disjoint conversation can sting deeper than a missed opportunity.

“I can’t talk long,” Akaashi begins one particular conversation.

“OK,” Kenma says, automatically. Because what else can he say - _No, stay until I have an understanding of you now. The Qatar marketplace can wait?_ “Where did you shoot today?”

This is where Akaashi details the seemingly unreal once more. Instead, he says, “Hold on. What’s the… What’s the weather like there?”

Kenma pauses, not sure how to answer such a mundane question. Neither of them are ones for small talk and he deliberates. The same, whether you’re here or not? Not shooting rainbows or spitting fire like where you are, probably? “It’s getting chilly. It’s cold enough that I sneeze in the mornings if I get out of bed without a blanket.”

“I’d rush to make breakfast and forget my slippers. You never forgot yours, though.”

“How could I? It’s too cold to forget.”

“That’s the opposite problem I have right now. I swear, my face is going to melt off. What are your plans today?”

“Kuro’s on break from studying in America, so he’s visiting today.” Kenma thinks, then amends, “Probably every day.”

“Bokuto-san will try to swing round if Kuroo-san’s back. Don’t forget to lock the doors and shut the blinds. ”

They laugh together. Akaashi’s chuckle is lower, more leisurely than Kenma remembers, and if he closes his eyes, he can almost feel Akaashi’s presence in the room with him.

“Kozume?”

“Yeah.” Kenma’s eyes are still closed.

“I’ve tried to call you a few times. But I - well, I can’t seem to.”

Kenma’s eyes fly open. “What do you mean, can’t seem to?”

“I mean, I was in the Costa Rica rainforest. Green as can be, and the call wouldn’t go through.”

“What memory did you use?”

“I used-” Akaashi cuts himself off, in a rare moment of hesitation.

“What memory did you use?” Kenma insists.

“The one last week. _Sentry of the Overworld_ … you had so many complaints, but in that way you talked about your volleyball teams. Like it’s a pain, but the game is worth the effort.”

“And it didn’t work?” Ordinarily, Kenma would pay more attention to the anecdote mentioned, but he’s too concerned about other matters.

“It’s fine. You can still call me, right?”

“But I’m running out of memories, Akaashi. I only have so many. _We_ only share so many.”

“Then make more,” Akaashi says immediately. Urgently. “Use our conversations.”

“You tried; it didn’t work. It’s not that easy. Memories need time to settle and solidify.” A thought strikes Kenma. “What if what happened to you, happens to me? We won’t be able to talk anymore.” _What if, what if_.

“We just have to calm down, and think this through.” Akaashi’s already long past the time he typically murmurs good night. “I’ll be back, eventually.”

“I’d love to know when that is.” Kenma doesn’t mean for the words to sound harsh, but all of a sudden he’s tired. He’s always been tired, and in the face of waiting any longer, of occupying half an apartment, the prospect deadens the weight.

““I’m sure there’s a solution-”

“You know what happened the last time you used _sense_ to make a decision,” Kenma snaps. “Akaashi, this is it. Some things just inevitably end.”

“Is this it, then? If it ever was,” Akaashi says, finally saying the words aloud.

It’s like the time Kenma went swimming. He doesn’t like getting wet, and the inconvenience of post-swim clean up and showers. But at least he doesn’t sweat or feel the tired ache in his limbs until he returns to dry land.

Kenma’s timing, the _pull_ , was right. His hands drew back when they should have. He caught the pocket of time in which he came up for air.

The chlorine made him splutter, burned him anyway.

“No,” Kenma says, ignoring the metallic taste in his mouth. “That’s not how this ends.”

They’re changing at different rates. Sometimes Kenma feels like he’s falling behind as Akaashi changes, can mark his own growth in the pins he can place on the places he’s been. But while Kenma knows he doesn’t feel like he’s changing, he is. Imperceptibly.

“I have to go.” Akaashi’s breath goes a touch ragged, sucking in a final breath. “Look. How I feel, it hasn’t changed. I lo-”

“Don’t you dare,” Kenma says. “ _Don’t_.”

The natural close, the natural order, the path of least resistance: these made sense to Kenma, a while ago.

But he’s found there are some things that he’ll hold onto, the tighter they wander away from him.

 _Not here, when I can’t see your face_. _When you don’t remember mine._

Akaashi’s fallen silent, and Kenma licks his lips before continuing.“However long it takes… Come home first. Then choose whether you want to say that to me, and if you do, then stay.

But I’m not going to wait, Akaashi.”

Something bays in the distance on Akaashi’s end. Someone calls his name. And then, “All right.”

Akaashi’s voice is faint. Is that the connection, Kenma wonders? Or perhaps Akaashi won’t raise his voice either, in case he, too, breaks.

 

* * *

 

It’s a fine enough day that Kenma joins everyone else in hanging out the laundry to dry. Clothes billow against the backdrop of the sky; their myriad of artificial scents mingle with the genuine ones the stark branched trees emanate. Kenma breathes in mountains, too crisp and not crisp enough.

“Yo.”

Kuroo can slip in restless and silent as a ghost. But today he’s decided he wants his presence known, and announces himself with the clatter of his bag falling onto the table. It’s unnecessary noise Kenma didn’t know that he needed.

Kuroo whistles. “Look at you, doing laundry. And the place is pretty clean for your standards, too.”

“Shut up.” Kenma butts into him with the basket. “What did you come over for? Aren’t you meeting up with Kai tonight?”

“Yeah, but I just wanted to check in.” Kuroo leans back to look Kenma in the eye. “How ya doing?”

For a split second, Kenma considers lying. But it’s futile with Kuroo’s sharp eyes on him, and he gives in. “I made a promise I don’t know if I can keep.”

“This has to do with Akaashi, right.” It wasn’t a question.

“I said I’d wait for him to come back before accepting anything important he had to say to me. And,” Kenma pauses because he knows Kuroo will zero straight in on this, “I also said I wouldn’t wait for him.”

“What kind of promise is _that_?” Sure enough, Kuroo has the nerve to break into laughter. “Geez, Kenma-”

“Akaashi’s changing, but so am I, Kuro,” and Kenma swats him on the arm to make sure he’s listening. “I wanted something that works for where we are.”

“Are you interested in someone else, then?”

“No. But I figured leaving my options open was better.”

Kuroo whistles. “Cold.”

“That’s not what I meant-”

“I know, you can’t always account for everything. But I get what you mean. Every time I go somewhere you’re not, a part of me worries we won’t be friends anymore.” Kuroo shrugs. “And for good reason. You were awful at keeping in touch. You got lost all the time because you weren’t paying attention.”

“That’s not true.”

“Is too.”

“Is not.”

“Anyway, those habits didn’t last. Look at us now, an ocean apart and still friends,” Kuroo continues. “You’re easier to keep an eye on when you’re in plain sight. We’re both like that. But that’s not how I’d want us to live. For you to live.”

 _And Akaashi feels the same_.

“You’re ridiculous, Kuro,” Kenma says, but allows himself to be pulled into a side hug.

“It’ll all work out, Kenma. One way or another.”

“You always say that at the worst times. Like when we missed the last train home and it was pouring. Or when you came down with the flu the day before your final exams, the kind where you were camped out next to the toilet.”

“Yeah, but when have I ever been wrong?” Kuroo counters. “We got home only four hours past our bedtimes, didn’t we? And I passed my exams with flying colors - while heavily drugged, I might add.”

Kenma jerks his head at the cloudless sky. “You also said it’d rain today.”

“You know what I meant.”

 

* * *

 

They don’t bring up their last conversation again. Even so, Kenma finds himself hanging onto last words, with the knack he picked up for sensing when his mother was about to hang up the phone, knowing it’s his warning to stow away his game console before she comes in to check on him.

There’s some deja vu here, Kenma nestled in his comforter with the lights off and his phone pressed to his ear.

“The world’s large,” he quickly says, right after Akaashi mentions the time.

“It is.” He can hear Akaashi raising his eyebrows; Kenma’s not one for meaninglessness.

“Lots of things to do. Places to go. People to meet.” He’s bordering dangerously on small talk.

“A limitless world,” Akaashi answers in balanced measures of caution. Then he throws the die: “And each person carves their own space.”

Meaning for all the world’s largeness, spaces are not interchangeable. There are spaces carved in places, and then in time.

“My co-workers wanted to eat dinner together,” Kenma says, because the gap seems suddenly too wide. “Miwa insisted we go for hot pot. She had two coupons she didn’t want to go to waste.”

“Only two? Who got the extra one?”

“It’s almost Kenma’s birthday, was her reason. But she’s been talking for months about a day where we eat our way through the city bakeries. She’s already talked the sound engineer and level designer into joining us.”

“Mm. Sounds fun.”

“It does,” Kenma says, and finds he means it.

“I’ll be flying for most of your birthday, Johannesburg to Atlanta. Want anything?”

“No. But I want to hear more about where you are.”

“Interested in coming here?”

“No… I just want to hear - about it.”

“All right.” Akaashi’s voice is drowned out by temporary rustling as he turns over on his side and pulls the blankets over his head, no doubt to minimize disturbing his roommate.

“Well, where we live, the savannah is right outside. It’s dark now, but if you listen, you’ll hear the long grass rustling. The bats make a lot of noise when they’re out looking for food, too. When the sun’s at a certain point, dusk or dawn, the light hits the grass just right and everything seems to glow. I waited for three hours to get that shot; captured a cheetah on the hunt. Oh, and nearly ran into a hyena.” Akaashi concedes with a hint of a smile, “The fear in both of our eyes - it was truly a moment of mutual understanding between man and beast, if there ever was one. I can’t wait to show you the photo.”

“It’s just as well memory phones don’t send photos. And don’t you make those… photo bakeries?”

“Photo trays, Kozume, you’ve still got apple pies on the brain. Yeah, I take tons of shots. I’m not actually taking them specifically for Ennoshita-san’s documentary, I’m just along for the ride and contribute photos for their album. But I was thinking I could submit some of my stuff to photo journals when I’m back.”

“I’d-” Kenma interrupts himself with a huge yawn. “Like to see them.”

“I can hang up.”

“When I fall asleep.”

“What I’d give for you to do the same, have the time for you to tell me about your job and your city forays. I miss…” Akaashi seems to catch himself. “I miss just walking places, coming back to a home with nothing to say.”

Akaashi’s voice is growing faint again. So Kenma reminds him, “Hyenas.”

“Right, hyenas.” And Akaashi brightens again. “I certainly didn’t expect him, but he was even more surprised than I was. They travel in packs; he was alone, _definitely_ wasn’t expecting me. Yelped and turned tail toward his packmates as soon as he’d gathered his wits. I think-”

The last thing Kenma remembers is the hum of a Bach symphony, warm and deep in a quiet murmur, as his last dregs of consciousness gently furl the connection shut.

 

* * *

 

_Liminal spaces have become home to Kozume Kenma._

_The acceptance is an acknowledgment of what his life entails: endless commutes and periods of waiting. Besides, what’s important tends to wander, until home beckons to them at some indefinable time._

_What’s more, he’s learned to make those spaces his. He taps away at his devices, burrowing himself into a world that goes anywhere with him. And when he gets the people and timing just right, that world projects itself away from the virtual and into the physical._

_And anyway, the waiting hardly feels like waiting._

_It’s the last joint training weekend before the Spring High, exclusively for Fukurodani and Nekoma. There are no punishment laps today; their captains are in too lethargic a mood for that._

_“A cool breeze!” Inuoka is the first one to notice, his senses attuned to even the slightest changes. “Kenma-san! We played a whole set, right? And we could all use some fresh air. Could we head outside? Just for a bit?”_

_Inuoka’s wide eyes are hopeful, and Kenma relents. “All right. As long as Akaashi’s fine with it. Twenty minutes until the next game?”_

_They both look through the net at Akaashi, who clearly heard the exchange. He nods. “I don’t see why not.”_

_“Yessss!”_

_“Hey.” Kenma tugs Inuoka back by his shirt. “Take the first years with you. Suzuki needs to work off the extra energy, and I can’t set with him bouncing all over the place and distracting everyone else.”_

_“Understood,” Inuoka says, the epitome of obedience. Then, “Come on, Suzuki!” as he all but drags Suzuki by the collar. Kenma hides his smile behind his hand as Suzuki protests, “Inuoka-senpai, slow down!” before he disappears through the door. Inuoka crows the news and the other players catch on, trailing out in twos and threes._

_Nekomata and Naoi pass by; for a moment, Kenma’s concerned if taking a break was the right thing to do. But Nekomata wears his easy, poker face smile. “We could use some fresh air ourselves,” he says. “Shibayama, bring the water bottles. No doubt everyone’s thirsty.”_

_“Yes, sir!”_

_Fukurodani’s coach follows suit, grabbing the bottle cases himself. “Oh no, I’ll do that, Yamiji-san,” Onaga says, rushing forward to help. Kenma settles himself on the newly vacated bench. The coaches and other third years will oversee the rowdier players, and he’s spent from taking control during the game._

_“Not heading out?” Akaashi’s collecting any spare volleyballs that have rolled into the corners._

_Kenma watches him pause, aim the balls, sink them into the cart one by one. “It’s quieter here.”_

_“Mind if I sit?”_

_“If you’re quiet.” And he is, so Kenma shifts aside to make room._

_“You decided to stay on, too.” Akaashi sits with his hands neatly folded in his lap, his eyes on the net._

_“As if I’d leave the team in the hands of hooligans.” Kenma picks at a loose thread on his shorts, and catches Akaashi’s smirk in the corner of his eye. “I’m leaving things to Shibayama as captain.”_

_“I’m leaving mine to Onaga. They’ll continue our exhaustively_ quiet _leadership after we leave.”_

_“You can take your exhaustively quiet self to the university volleyball team, too.”_

_“That’s what I wanted to ask you about.” Akaashi turns away from the nets, zeroing in on Kenma. “What are your university plans?”_

_“Somewhere close by, where I can study game development.” That’s the good thing about living near Tokyo: Kenma’s not lacking in school choices. “Are you staying in Tokyo?”_

_“Yeah. Going to Todai for economics.” Akaashi says this without any inflection, quickly moving on as if he’s been fawned on for this response many times, and doesn’t want to dwell on it. “Are you planning on dorming?”_

_“Commuting. I live too close to justify dorming. But...” Kenma’s mother has mentioned moving, and keeps hinting to Kuroo during his visits that he should teach Kenma how to cook. “I think my parents wouldn’t mind me moving into a place on my own, as long as I didn’t live too far away.” He’s mentioned this to Shouyou, who listened with wide eyed interest; it’s the first time Kenma’s realized how fortunate he is to have enough funds to consider a place of his own._

_Akaashi rests his palms on the bench. “Well, what do you think about finding a place together?”_

_“Nowhere in the city,” Kenma says at once._

_“My thoughts exactly. Somewhere outside the city proper. Somewhere less noisy. How about it?”_

_Kenma could have said “I’ll think about it,” or even just ask more questions. Instead, he says, “Why me?”_

_“_ Why _you?” Akaashi arches an eyebrow. “What do you mean? Who else would I be asking?”_

_“I mean, you could stay in the dorms, or stay with a classmate or someone attending the same university, or even one of your senpai. Why me?”_

_“Well.” Akaashi shifts his weight, one palm to the other. “It’d give my parents, and Kuroo-san and Bokuto-san, some peace of mind knowing I was living with someone I know. But most importantly, we’ve never really spent time together. I think we’d get along.” His mouth quirks up on one side. “And it’d be quiet.”_

_Outside, someone shrieks. Kenma turns toward the doors in alarm, before remembering the coaches are supervising. Then he’s looking at Akaashi again, who’s weighing him as carefully as he’s watching Akaashi. “Just one question.”_

_“Yes?”_

_“Can you cook?”_

_“Well enough.”_

_“Then I accept.”_

_Akaashi blinks. “That was it?”_

_“The important questions were already answered.”_

_Akaashi breaks into a smile, uninhibited and surprised, and Kenma returns it. They fall into more silence; Akaashi trains his gaze on the ceiling, while Kenma curls into his customary ball. They watch someone being chased past the gym doors, followed by the patter of something being sprayed onto tiles._

_Akaashi asks at present, “Why game development?”_

_“You’re the first one who’s asked. The usual reaction is, ‘As expected of Kenma!’”_

_“Bokuto-san’s in his university on a sports scholarship, determined to play volleyball but struggling through biology classes first. I figured everyone has their reasons, that aren’t always immediately obvious.”_

_“I like playing games, I guess. But that’s different from interest in their mechanics. I thought it wouldn’t be too bad, to figure out how they’re made. How they work. Picking them apart and building them up.” He sighs. “That’s a pretty obvious answer, come to think of it.”_

_“Better to hear it from your own mouth, than to take it as a given.”_

_“Why are you studying economics, then?”_

_“Well -” Akaashi starts, but a cry from outside interrupts him._

_“Take that!” Someone else yells, and a green_ something _explodes just over the gym threshold, spraying water everywhere._

_Akaashi leaps up as another object, yellow this time, hits the bench leg and explodes. Something rolls along the gym floor and stops at Kenma’s feet: a lone, red, water balloon._

_Lev appears, his arms long enough to reach across the double doored space, with the appearance of having run through a water park. Through his sodden mop of hair, he announces, “Kenma-san, we’re ready to resume practice.”_

 

* * *

 

 

Kenma is spent. But he’s found, as it goes for volleyball, that even when he thinks he has nothing left, there is always something more he can give.

The most obvious memories are offered first. Their longest, most poignant interactions, spent in silence or not - Kenma inserts these into the ether, as currency to reach the Akaashi he knows in his thoughts: curly haired, sharp eyed, blunt in speech, formidable even before he opens his mouth. They’ve spent enough time together throughout high school and university to fuel their conversations, for a while.

But Akaashi’s away for a year, going on two; when the easiest thoughts are no longer enough, Kenma must search deeper, in between the lines. Because of Akaashi, Kenma must see beyond what’s in front of his nose. The world is big, spread further than he can even imagine. There are plenty more spaces he can’t fit into, than the ones that he can.

Travel would change Akaashi. Through Akaashi’s stories, he’s learned how much the world has to offer, but also how much he has to offer himself.

Kenma’s found there’s a contentedness in staying where he is, too. Being separated isn’t about missing the other person, it’s perspective. It’s a wider realization of the person, knowing that they exist in such a large space and don’t remain limited to one small area forever. What’s large and small begin to change; little tiresome, irksome habits take on a new significance.

And that is where the _missing someone_ comes in:

Kenma holding onto the handles on the subway carriage, only to topple into the taller, stronger mid-aged man in front of him when the train stops. Mortified, mumbling apologies, he shrinks into the wall next to the doors, forgetting the reason he stumbled in the first place: Akaashi’s text wishing him good luck at his first day of work.

Akaashi walking into the security check at Narita International Airport to travel to his first international economics conference in Madrid, at the same time Kenma’s stuffed into a van alongside Konoha, Washio, and some of Akaashi’s volleyball team members in a mad post-work dash to see him off. They arrive when Akaashi’s already waiting at his gate; Washio treats Kenma to gyudon, because he was the first one to arrive.

The Meguro River is seemingly on fire, red lights further immolated by the warm pink cherry blossoms, when Akaashi calls Kenma to remind him to renew his transportation pass at the nearby Family Mart. _What does the river look like_? Akaashi asks. _It’s the same thing we see every year_ , Kenma says. _Same isn’t always bad_ , Akaashi answers. _Let’s go see the same old thing this weekend_ , though they never do.

Kenma’s neck is sore from craning upwards to watch the never ending crisscross of maple leaves at Shinjuku Gyoen National Garden. “Doesn’t it look like a sunset? All the pretty colors?” a young couple ask their baby, who looks at the same scenery with open-mouthed wonder, and when Kenma turns back to the foliage above him, he allows himself a smile, even as his phone rings, even as he picks up, Akaashi’s apology already ringing in his ears with terms like “financial performance reports” and “expenditure monitoring”.

 _What do you see? Hear? Smell? Feel? Tell me._ From most others this question would be a pain, when Kenma wants to indulge in his visions as he walks down the long avenue of memory trees. But Akaashi seems to know when Kenma’s done reveling in his own thoughts before breaking their silences. It makes Kenma want to return the question, to consciously inquire without mere conjecture through observation.

Kenma’s team’s break is running longer than usual. _That’s your roommate? That’s him?_ Miwa whispers in hushed tones, pointing at the photo as if Akaashi could have possibly heard them. _That’s him_ , Kenma says. _He’s beautiful!_ she says, pressing both hands to her heart. _I guess_ , and Kenma stares at the floor, ignoring the irrepressible sense of warmth spreading in his chest. _I’d have to agree_ , says their team leader. _I wouldn’t go that far, Miwa_ , interjects the sound engineer, but she’s not having it. _Shush, Hiroki, you thought so too. Your eyes grew wide along with the rest of ours._

Even so, it’s unsettling, this silence. Kenma faces the _what ifs_ ; it’s too loud when his thoughts fill the noiselessness. When Kenma searches in between the most obvious memories and is left with what’s seeped in between the largest boulders, he still manages to use the smallest pebbles to cobble together something that is Akaashi Keiji.

There’s _what if,_ and then there is _what is_ , when Kenma’s on the verge of falling asleep and thoughts slot themselves into places he didn’t notice in his waking hours:

Fact 1: Akaashi Keiji is not here.

Fact 2: Apart, they have more slips in conversation. But Kozume Kenma still misses Akaashi Keiji.

Fact 3: Kozume Kenma misses Akaashi Keiji like a pang, like a skipped beat in a song with an ever steady thrum.

Fact 4: No, like those and then some.

Fact 5: That “some” being like….

Fact 6: Well, like a love.

 

* * *

 

The Tokyo City government fits the memory trees with stakes and protectors. Even so, the reinforcements aren’t what keeps them upright: it’s the whims of the winds. Change the directions of the gust, slice the force at the right angle, and even a trunk wrapped in carbyne will fall.

Such is the state of the degenerated avenue. The trees take time to replace; they first need generation, paperwork approved by the Madagascan government, quarantine, and then preparation for a journey in the air. Transportation has become more efficient, but remains perilous for delicate goods.

Kenma hasn’t spoken to Akaashi in three weeks. As is his habit to maximize focus on projects, Akaashi barely checks anything else other than memory phones, which are already limited in features. The wait is agonizing, and yet that is all Kenma can do. Surprisingly, the silence isn’t as difficult as he believed when it’s filled with the noise of others. His days were quiet, and all of a sudden, they aren’t.

“Does she have a name?” the vet asks. “I can have it engraved on her collar and mailed to you.”

“Yuki,” Kenma says. He chooses the name because the cat is as far from snow, whether in looks or etiquette, as he is from gregariousness.

“All right, everything seems in order. She’s all yours.” The vet smiles as Kenma’s cat imperiously slides over on the table, tail waving in the faces of everyone she passes. “She was a stray, wasn’t she? Took a while to coax her out of her shell, but she warmed up in the end. Turns out she likes people who don’t overindulge, and give her only as much as she needs.”

And Kenma, who believed they had nothing in common, blinks.

The street stirs only with the rustling of physical leaves. Everything’s right in the world; clean, bright, crisp, save for the ringing soundlessness of the place. What saves it from becoming utterly foreign is the lively discussions occurring in Kenma’s workplace that now involve him.

“I think the first bakery had the worst apple pie,” Hiroki, the sound engineer, starts.

“No way! It just had too much cinnamon, but the flavors were fine,” Miwa drums her pen against her cheek. “I think the fifth was worst - too much salt. Gave me a stomachache.”

“We all had stomachaches by then,” Kenma helpfully chimes in. Miwa narrows her eyes at him.

“Nope! Don’t you even try, Kenma. You can criticize my in-game art all you want, but not my palate.”

“What, and I wasn’t invited to this food outing?” Takeshi, their team leader, interjects. “I’m hurt.”

“You were visiting your grandparents, Arakawa-san, don’t pin this on us.” Miwa hums. “Though I do know this great hot pot place-”

“The same one we went to? Do you have coupons again, Miwa-san?” Kenma asks.

“Well, I never! How could you _suggest_ that I judge places with factors other than my heart and stomach-”

“Well, do you?” asks Masao, their level designer.

Miwa huffs. “That’s _beside the point_. We could have a meal together there, just because. How about that?”

“Actually, that’s not a bad idea,” Takeshi decides. “Some good food and drinks in our stomachs might loosen up the mood. I’ve recently been feeling this place has been strange without the trees around. It’s a little hard to get in touch with our composer in Helsinki.” He sighs, and runs a hand over his stubble. “Can’t call my wife when she’s away on assignment, either.”

It’s all thrown into sharp relief, for Kenma: the deep crow’s feet at the corners of Takeshi’s eyes, thinning hair dishevelled from being endlessly threaded through, gaze wandering outside when there’s a chance to breathe. Knowing he’s not the only one concerned, with his heart only half here, makes Kenma feel less alone.

“How about next Tuesday,” he suggests.

 

* * *

 

There is noise in the form of subway roar that drowns out all thought. Noise in the banter of teammates and competitors. Noise in the bubble of individual soup pots, as people drop raw ingredients in to eat and sit back, filled to the brim with warm company and food.

Hinata Shouyou is his own brand of noise.

He hasn’t changed from his high school days, from the way he enters a room like a typhoon himself. Even if the room is an industrial airport-sized arrival hall, even when it’s peak hour and crowded with people. Even when Kenma’s hair has long lost its gold, and blends in with the black of everyone else’s.

“Kenma!” Somehow, Kenma always forgets a person can shout this joyfully. Or hug this hard. “That was fast! Thanks for picking me up!”

“You found _me_. But not like you’re hard to miss,” Kenma says, returning the hug. “Good flight?”

“Not bad,” Shouyou crows, and Kenma takes one of Shouyou’s bags as a hint they should get going. “I got a window seat, and the movies and food were pretty good! Just, my elbows kept knocking with Kageyama’s, and he wanted to keep the armrests down while I wanted them up, and he got cross every time I climbed over him to go to the bathroom.” He takes a deep breath, and Kenma prepares himself for a barrage. “But Germany! Kenma, training camp was amazing. I made friends with the German team’s middle blocker. His English was way better than mine, but we bonded over our crabby setters.”

Shouyou continues to talk as he loads his luggage into the trunk of Kenma’s car, almost forgetting to roll his window up as they enter the expressway. With Shouyou’s animated chatter and the radio turned low, Kenma’s hands relax around the steering wheel. That Shouyou, he thinks, persistent and unrelenting in everything he does.

When they arrive, Shouyou fusses over Yuki, making her indifferent to him. He and Kenma talk well into the evening, when they’re both settled under the covers, watching a movie together. Yuki stalks in at some point, curling herself up in Kenma’s lap. Despite Kenma laying out fresh sheets and blankets on Akaashi’s bed, Shouyou has fashioned them into a makeshift futon in Kenma’s room.

“It’s fine to sleep on Akaashi’s bed,” Kenma tries to say.

But Shouyou waves his protests away. “I’m fine! We never get to see each other, so I want to make the most of tonight.” He settles back, hands behind his head. “When I was abroad, I kept wondering if I’d run into Akaashi-san. But he could be anywhere, right?”

“Right.”

“Do you worry about me when I’m not here? Because I can reassure you-”

With Kenma glancing toward the wall, no one catches him smile. “No. You always find a way. And your team’s right there, getting into trouble with you.”

“Then, are you worried about him? Akaashi-san, I mean.”

Two pairs of eyes glow at Kenma in the dark.

“I try not to be,” he says. “It wouldn’t help. He’ll find a way, too. All I can do is trust him.”

 

* * *

 

Trust manifests itself in unexpected, miniscule forms. Expecting emails to arrive to their correct senders and for websites not to send anything else after unsubscribing. Or the trains to navigate themselves and their passengers to the correct stations at the correct times. Or data not to corrupt, not when so much has been digitized already.

Or a cat who paws at the door in the dead of night when no one knocks, yowling for her owner.

Kenma shuffles into the living room, wrapped in his comforter. “It was just a dog or something, Yuki. Go back to sleep.”

As per usual, she ignores him.

Sighing, Kenma kneels to take the bear spray (a gift from Bokuto, bought on one of his hikes in Hokkaido) from the shoe cabinet. “Fine. But after this, I don’t even want to hear a meow out of you.”

He sees no one at first; the lamp outside their door has broken, and his eyes need time to adjust to the light. It’s the hour when the night is darkest, and the neighborhood has settled into a perfect hibernation.

Then, a dark figure appears.

Kenma raises the can of bear spray.

The figure sneezes, and his hood slips off as he does. If he’s a criminal, he’s a rather polite one: turning his head into his elbow, and sniffing instead of wiping his nose on the back of his hand.

Kenma would recognize those curls anywhere.

“... Akaashi?”

Shivering, clinging to himself to stay warm, out of place -

Home.

 

* * *

 

Kenma waits until the next morning, safely in the light of day, to make sure Akaashi’s not a premonition. He makes sure Akaashi’s curled on the couch before he begins. “You could’ve have just asked someone else to tell me. I could’ve driven you home.”

“It was too sudden,” Akaashi says, and did he always look this good in his old grey turtleneck? “There was a last minute flight in from Stockholm. I had to take it, I couldn’t wait.”

“You didn’t have to dress all in black, with your hood pulled up-”

“It was cold. I was fumbling for the keys,” Akaashi explains. “I forgot the lock tends to stick, unless you twist it back and forth a few times. In the time I was gone, you didn’t fix that? And what about the lamp?”

“Not home for even a day, and you’re already telling me how to live in my own house,” Kenma quips.

“You almost attacked me. With _Bokuto-san’s_ _bear spray_.”

“Just protecting what’s mine.”

“For the record, I also live here.”

“Lived. You haven’t lived here in over two years.”

“You even replaced me. With a cat.” Yuki doesn’t seem too pleased about giving her space up for a stranger, but she grudgingly accepts Akaashi’s head scratch.

“It wasn’t so much me doing the replacing, as her moving herself in.”

“What else have you done?” Akaashi lays his hand back on the table, only a palm’s width away from Kenma’s on the couch. “Rented my room out to someone else?”

“Well, Kuro stays there when he’s over. I always tell Shouyou he can sleep in your bed, but he never wants to.”

“At least you offered,” Akaashi says seriously. “I’d hate for guests to come to a place with a vacant bed, and not even have the chance to use it.”

“I’m not _that_ hostile, Akaashi.”

“I’m just saying. There’s no sanctity between a bed and a tired traveller.”

Kenma snorts. “As if you even slept in a bed last night.”

Akaashi had passed out in Kenma’s room, without even bothering to move the makeshift futon back to his own bed. Having Akaashi asleep in his room felt eerily foreign and familiar, like a stranger. But they talked as easily as they did; Kenma knows Akaashi’s bare bones, and knowing Akaashi again was rediscovering the muscles, the nerves, and the flesh. When Akaashi comes back, it’s like he brings back all the memories with him, and Kenma must piece them together again to find a different, but essentially still, Akaashi.

“And what’s this?” Akaashi breaks the boundary, reaching to run his hand through Kenma’s black hair. “The dye’s completely gone.”

“Trimmed the last of it off with my most recent haircut.” Kenma struggles to sound casual, though his stomach is doing strange flips as Akaashi continues to twine his fingers through the strands.

“I always imagined you with your pudding head. No wonder I couldn’t call you.” Akaashi strokes one last time; his hand brushes Kenma’s neck as he pulls away.

“You kept your hairstyle more or less the same,” Kenma notes, his mouth dry.

“Not exactly. Feel.” Akaashi tilts his head towards Kenma, an invitation, and Kenma reached out. The curls aren’t the soft ones he’s occasionally touched, when in the past he pushed hair off a sweaty forehead to press an ice pack onto it. The strands have become rougher, more wiry.

“As expected, for someone who spent so much of his time in caves and anything that burns and soaks.” Kenma tries to make the words come off as jest, but the distance slams back, tangible in how quickly he pulls away.

“Kenma?” Akaashi’s alert gaze on him is inscrutable.

Kenma doesn’t look back. He stands up, Yuki trotting over to him at once. “I’m going to make breakfast.”

 

* * *

 

The trees are finally replaced, the avenue bustling once more with visitors and city inhabitants attempting to guess the meanings in visions that don’t always have any. And as before Akaashi left, he and Kenma must confront another revolving door of visitors cycling through their apartment.

Ennoshita himself turns up at their apartment a few days later. His eyes are ringed with dark circles from jetlag, but he appears in good spirits as he congratulates Akaashi on the shots he took.

“If you’re interested in the next film, let me know. I’ll be happy to take you on board as a location scout.”

Feeling Akaashi watching him for his reaction, Kenma carefully keeps his expression impassive. Then Akaashi says, “I’ll consider it, Ennoshita-san. Thank you for letting me coming along as a novice.”

Bokuto appears the week after, on a brief break from national team training. After embracing Akaashi, Bokuto holds him at length to criticize his appearance. “You look kinda peaky, and windswept, too. I gotta bulk you back up while I’m here!”

“Bokuto-san,” Akaashi hastily says, “When I came home yesterday, Kozume almost used the bear spray you gave us on me.”

Bokuto blinks, then just throws his head back to roar with laughter. “I bet you showed up all mysterious and dark in the dead of night, Akaashi. I knew deep down you liked a dramatic entrance as much as I do! That’s what he did, right, Kenma?”

Kenma ignores Akaashi’s disgruntled squint. “Yup.”

Bokuto claps Kenma on the back, making him cough. “Good on ya, Kenma! Stay vigilant!”

“Bokuto-san-”

Compared to his merciless takedown at the hands of the capable Bokuto, Akaashi gamely takes the ribbing from his university classmates about switching professions on them.

“When we heard you up and quit, we expected something to do with _volleyball_ ,” a tall young woman laughs. She has the sort of intimidating gaze that makes Kenma feel like a mounted insect.

“How did your parents take it?” Another woman, this one short and spiky-haired, wants to know.

“Not well at all,” Akaashi replies. “They still haven’t accepted it. But they agreed to my visiting them next week, at least.”

Upon Akaashi’s departure, Kenma longed only for the quiet. But upon Akaashi’s return, Kenma appreciates the procession of visitors. Kenma doesn’t say much - he hasn’t quite grasped how to handle himself in group conversations, and suspects he never might. He’s always been more comfortable sitting back and observing without the pressure to talk anyway, and that’s what he does now: watching the parts of Akaashi Keiji that are hidden or unknown, fill back up into existence.

 

* * *

 

It’s 4 a.m. again, as Kenma and Akaashi wade their way through another crowd of tourists and locals alike. And though the smell of fish brine is familiar, the venue no longer is; the fish market has moved to a larger warehouse to accommodate growing demand.

This time they’ve slept early and are awake, and Akaashi is armed with his camera. The vendors, accustomed to tourists, ignore the presence of the lens, and Kenma watches him go to work. Sometimes he makes sudden turns or stops, but whenever this includes moving too far away, his long fingers close around Kenma’s shoulder to lead them along.

“Sorry,” Akaashi apologizes at one point, when he makes a U-turn sudden enough that warrants grasping Kenma’s wrist. “I’m not very inconspicuous, am I?”

Kenma allows himself to be tugged into the gap in the crowd that’s just enough for the two of them. “You’re doing fine,” Kenma says. Akaashi was aiming for a stall where the owner was about to shovel more dried squid into the tray; Fukunaga might like some. “I’m the only one who’s watching.”

Akaashi finally invokes the notice of the crowd, and this time entirely by mistake. He stops dead in the middle of the street, making grumbling people mill around them as he stares at Kenma. They’re near a bridge now, and it’s hard to tell whether the impending sunrise is what marks Akaashi’s cheeks with warmth.

Kenma reaches out to take Akaashi’s left hand, the one not grasping his camera. “You’re doing fine,” he repeats. And as Akaashi smiles back, Kenma has a feeling they also will be.

 

* * *

 

Visiting the Tokyo Museum of Photography wasn’t either of their ideas. It was, in fact, Kenma’s team leader’s, making a _suggestion_ that sounded more like a bunch of people who preferred to remain unnamed very strongly who hinted that Arakawa, as the default representative, should say something - even if said representative had “This is highly unprofessional” etched all over his face.

Kenma has never had much stamina for museums, and his patience soon grows thin; surprisingly, so does Akaashi’s.

“Do you want to see your work in here someday?” Kenma asks, nose glued to his console and trailing behind Akaashi, who politely but not very interestedly examines every piece.

“A little soon to think about that,” he says. “But maybe, at least to please my parents. Having my work displayed somewhere would be a tangible achievement they can understand.”

“Mm.”

“Kozume.”

Kenma looks up. He’s drifted to the center of the room, where there are no pieces to even pretend to be perusing. “Uh...”

Akaashi smiles. In this plain white room, he stands out in his dark jeans and plaid scarf; that smile’s dose is concentrated, intoxicating. Kenma’s heartbeat stutters. “I think I’m ready to go. Are you?”

“Definitely,” Kenma says, slipping his console into his pocket.

As they enter the museum’s main hall, their hands find each other. It’s been happening more often, and upon reflection Kenma’s never sure who first initiates contact. They never remain linked for long, whether it’s because of Akaashi needing to use his camera or Kenma texting a reply, but Kenma’s perfectly all right with that arrangement. Besides, he’s never liked having sweaty hands.

He glances at Akaashi, who’s looking at him. The smile’s no longer on Akaashi’s lips, but in his eyes.

“We never visited the river together. It’s not that far from here.”

There are new memory trees planted in sparse batches among the zelkovas, hidden well among the greenery. The weather is still cool, but already signs of summer are showing themselves. So Kenma replies simply with, “Okay.”

They walk, Kenma following Akaashi’s lead but staying closer than was necessary, without a word exchanged, without a sound, in the _quiet_ of the city’s bustle. It’s the most peaceful Kenma’s felt with anyone for a long time, like he’s been talking for years and only now has the opportunity to fall silent at last.

“Did you have a specific bridge in mind?” Akaashi asks, when they finally arrive.

“I’m not going to waste time searching for just one of the twenty one bridges here,” Kenma says.

“Good,” Akaashi says, “because I didn’t plan on doing that either.”

They settle at Shinagawa Bridge, with its view of the shrine.

“Would you like to go first?” Akaashi leans against the red railing, elbows splayed and posture going to pieces; this is the first time Kenma’s seen him so relaxed.

“I would,” Kenma says, “but I have a feeling we’re both quoting from the same thing.”

Akaashi reaches into the pocket of his jacket, drawing out a blood red journal. He flips it open to the first page, and hands it to Kenma. “You can do the honors.”

_What Akaashi Keiji Should Remember When Travelling_

_Don’t forget your stuff._

_Real mountains have the better air and clearer memories, but laundry detergent tinted with artificial mountains smell of home._

_If you look and sound foreign, some people are kinder. Some people sell you things at higher prices._

_Try at least one bite of every unfamiliar dish. (I’d never do this.)_

_Don’t look back until you reach the top._

“Well, how was it?” Kenma looks up. “Inspirational?”

“As inspirational as you can be, at any rate. The second list, not so much.”

_Why This Foldable Cup is a Good Gift (Stop Looking at me Like That, Akaashi)_

_1\. High quality silicone._

_2\. Washable, easily dryable._

_3\. Stuffable into any small bag._

_4\. Seriously, stop giving me that look._

_5\. Good for hot and cold food. Not so good for preventing food poisoning or other related illnesses._

“You have to admit,” Kenma says, “that one’s very pragmatic.”

“You were right about the food poisoning. And the bout of dysentery. But these lists are hardly romantic.”

“I didn’t know you wanted a romantic confession,” Kenma says. “Unless you’re planning on giving _me_ one.”

“What’s more romantic than trawling through everything from bog, to frozen mountain peaks, to killer mud, to scorching heat, while protecting a leather bound, flimsy papered excuse of an information husk for sentimentality’s sake?”

Kenma sighs. “Because everything’s become so digitized, that there’s been a rise in the resurgence of tangible information keeping involving pen and paper, creating more personalization?”

“Of all the people to extol the virtues of _physical_ data, I didn’t expect you to be one of them, Kozume.”

“Kenma.”

“What?”

“Kenma,” says Kenma. “Everyone calls me that. Even Bokuto-san. Even my co-workers. Even the landlord, when he’s in a good mood. Everyone, except you. For someone who’s so blunt, you’re so proper.”

“That -” And Akaashi twists uncomfortably. “That wasn’t ever a boundary I was sure I could cross.”

Kenma sighs, and tugs Akaashi to face him. “It’s been years, we’re finally on the same continent, and we’re holding hands. What’s the hold up, _Akaashi_?”

Akaashi exhales, kneading Kenma’s fingers where they intertwine with his own. “When I was travelling with Ennoshita-san, I tried some documentary photography. I spent a lot of time at first capturing a subject as what I wanted it to be. But I had a lot of time to think. Documentary photography is more about capturing the subject as it is, and... well.” His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows, but he meets Kenma’s gaze. “I wanted to be sure we were looking at something that _is_ , and not something as amorphous as a memory.”

“We’ve had enough time to decide that. After all the time we spent apart and grew on our own, we decided we still wanted to be together.” Kenma frowns. “And where’s the cup? It’s not as aesthetically pleasing as the artisan mugs you bought, but it looked useful.”

“The cup cracked, but I don’t want to retire it and consign it to one of my room’s dusty shelves just yet. I’d like to take it to one more place.”

“Is this for work?”

“Not exactly. Call it an occupational hazard or even wanderlust, but I’m curious.” Akaashi catches Kenma by his sweater sleeve. “Come with me?”

And Kenma curls his hands around Akaashi’s neck to pull him closer. “Yes,” Kenma says, bringing their foreheads together.

A hand rests on Kenma’s neck and draws him close to press against a warm torso. Akaashi’s exhale is soft, warm, as their lips silently meet. “I love you,” he says.

Kenma reaches up to smooth back a wayward strand near Akaashi’s cheek. “Me too.”

He wants to keep his eyes open, to capture the image as well as the sensation of feeling Akaashi, tasting Akaashi, and watching dark eyes set aflame. But Akaashi reaches for his face, and Kenma’s vision blackens in a blind connection that feels everything.

 _Your touch is a second growth_. Because Akaashi’s fingers, Akaashi’s mouth ghost over cheeks and jawline, eliciting shivers that bloom up Kenma’s back.

 

* * *

 

They stand under a great awning carved from mountains, the rock serving as an additional overpass for human traffic. Swallows hurl themselves off the cliffs, flatten themselves in lines perpendicular to the ground, and hurtle safely into other cave crevices.

Things Kenma enjoys about Taiwan: moments like these he finds with Akaashi, whether a country away or not, plenty of people who speak at least conversational Japanese, the healthy appreciation for gaming, similar conbini with similar products, the mountains lending to the clarity of his conversations with Shouyou and Kuroo.

Things he doesn’t: an uneven step due to the spit out betel nut at the bottom of his shoe, litter everywhere despite the wider availability of trash bins, traffic lights treated as guidelines, people not understanding what waiting for their turn means, the constant noise in most places that’s fortunately drowned by the water’s roar here.

They’re too far from trees that whisper; the silence is complete. It’s not home. It’s hot. It’s humid. It’s crowded with other tourists. It’s littered. It’s the worst, situationally speaking.

But Keiji rests his lens on Kenma’s shoulder, and then his chin, arms curling around Kenma’s waist, and Kenma can like this forever, for minutes, for years.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Hypothetical (dubious) lists Akaashi might have in his journal, compiled from a Skype convo that was way too late:
> 
>  
> 
> _1\. Places to Go With Kozume Kenma_  
>  2\. Places Kozume Won't Want to Go to, but Might Enjoy  
> 3\. Top Ten Local Spots Kozume Will Like  
> 4\. Effective Ways to Persuade Kozume Into Doing Anything (Who Am I Kidding)  
> 5\. Top Ten Reasons Bokuto-san Would Make an Ideal Travelling Companion  
> 6\. ... And Why He'd Make a Questionable One  
> 7\. Why Bokuto-san is, in fact, a Bear Wrestler  
> 8\. Why Bokuto-san Isn't a Bear Wrestler


End file.
